Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings
by Warlic Elfire
Summary: Smaug the Golden has been slain and the Necromancer has been driven out of Dol Guldur, while far across the sea King Robert Baratheon and his friend Eddard Stark have both been slain. The eyes of the Wise turn west, as Sauron seeks new servants in his quest to claim dominion of Arda. A Ring of Power sails to Westeros, and with it the destinies of many will forever be changed.
1. Introduction

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Introduction

Recently I made the mistake of binge watching all seven seasons of Game of Thrones right after doing a marathon of the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings. Besides the obviously massive amount of time wasted and the sleep depravation involved in these endeavors, since then I have not been able to get the idea out of my head of what it would be like if the Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones existed in the same universe. So, being the writer that I am, I know there is no way I am going to have a peaceful night's sleep until I write about it. And so _Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings_ was born.

There are some important details you should know. The first is that while I will be taking inspiration from the films on how to portray the characters of Middle-earth, anywhere the movies contradict Tolkien's original writings (an issue I have with the Hobbit films especially) I will give priority to Tolkien's version of events. This won't have too large of an impact on the story, but there will be an appearance by Glorfindel and other characters not portrayed in the movies, as well as some events that occurred in the films playing out differently. However, I am not as versed with Martin's world as I am with Tolkien's and have only read the first book in _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , so I will be relying predominantly on the events of the television show. Also important to note is that this is an alternate universe, in which Westeros and Middle-earth have always existed alongside one another, but have had little contact due to distance and other forces. This may result in some discrepancies, but I will do my best to keep them at a minimum.

I will be using both the Westeros (Before/After Conquest) and Middle-earth (Second/Third Age) methods of tracking the years, with the assumption that Season 1 of Game of Thrones takes place ten years after the events of the Hobbit.

I hope you all enjoy this adventure across Middle-Earth, Essos, and Westeros. Please give me all the feedback you can. Seriously, feedback is literally what fanfic writers live on. I might die without it. Anyways, thank you for joining me on this adventure and I will be speaking to you later!


	2. Prologue

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Prologue

With the death of Smaug the Golden and the banishment of the Necromancer from Dol Guldur, the peoples of Middle Earth have been given a brief respite. However, their troubles are far from over. The Necromancer, secretly the Dark Lord Sauron, fled Dol Guldur only to return to his fortress of Barad Dur in the dark land of Mordor. The shadow of Mordor slowly grows with the Dark Lord's power, and though the One Ring has been lost for centuries, that will not stop the Dark Lord from bringing destruction to Middle Earth. The Black Gate, which has held back the forces of Mordor for generations, has once again fallen to the Enemy. Evil stirs in the dark places of Middle Earth, and not just in Mordor. Evil beings hear their master's call from the Misty Mountains to Mirkwood and beyond.

Robert Baratheon, King of Westeros, has died. Eddard Stark, Hand of the King and Lord of Winterfell, was executed for treason by Joffrey, "Robert's" mad son, who now sits in his father's place on the Iron Throne. The aftermath of these events has erupted into a bloody conflict known as the War of the Five Kings, as everyone seeks to gain the Iron Throne for themselves. Across the Narrow Sea, on the continent of Essos, another contender for the throne slowly grows in power, as do her young dragons. With the return of dragons comes the return of other magics, and beyond the Wall far to the North, the dead walk and even darker forces stir.

In this period of gathering storm, the Wise of Middle-Earth look westward, to a world that has been long forgotten by most in Middle-Earth. Those with the gift of foresight see dark tidings, and the events across the sea can be ignored no longer. Two worlds that have not known one another for millennia now come together once more. As magic returns to Westeros, old myths of a strange land far to the east gain greater validity, and in the chaos that consumes the land, many look there for answers, for escape, or for weapons with which to win the growing wars. New alliances will be forged, dark forces will stir, and nothing will be the same.

. . . . .

Second Age 1105/4979 Before Conquest

Off the coast of Essos

The sun shone high in the sky, its rays glinting off the steel of the armor worn by the men far below. The wind filled the sails of their mighty vessel, polished wood and detailed carvings along the ship's length bespoke a level of craftsmanship that few could match. Among Men, there were none that could match the Men of Númenor for skill in craft or seafaring.

The mariners maneuvered their vessel effortlessly through the waves, the winds bearing them south, further along the coast of this strange new continent. They moved with an almost inhuman grace, the blood of the Eldar still strong among them in those days. Their captain was a proud man, a Lord of Númenor with the blood of kings. He had many long years at the prow of his ship, but even in all that time, he had never had a discovery as massive as this.. The sea was his birthright, these new shores his to claim.

"Captain!" one of the sailors called out, running up to the prow where the Captain looked out at this new world.

"Yes, sailor?"

"There's a strange wind coming from the south," the young man answered breathlessly. "The windsage don't know what to make of it. It doesn't seem to be a natural weather pattern. It rises above the other winds, moving swiftly this way."

"Hmmm…" the Captain looked up in the direction indicated, his eyes straining. He took in a deep breath, a contemplative look spreading across his face. "Those windsages have a lot of scholarly knowledge in the ways and patterns of the wind, but they don't have the instincts of a true sailor. I've found myself in disagreement with them many times in the past. However…" he paused, thinking for a moment. "There is a strange taste to the air coming from the south. It tastes like fire… and blood." He turned to the younger man, and while he showed no signs of fear, his instincts told him that the Captain was unsettled. "Send word to the men. Prepare for a fight."

The young sailor ran to obey, and the Captain returned his gaze to the southern skies. In the far distance he caught a glimpse of something strange, two dark dots at the very edge of vision. The dots grew bigger at dangerously fast, and he quickly realized that these "dots" were much larger than anything in the sky had any right to be. He snatched his spear from the rack beside him, his eyes unable to move from the sight flying towards them.

 ** _RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHH!_** The immense roar split the air, a sudden blast of wind throwing up waves and rocking the boat as two massive forms settled into hovering above the ship, their shadows almost entirely darkening the expansive vessel.

 _Dragons._ **Dragons!** Two immense dragons hovered above the Captain's ship, the most magnificent and terrifying sight the Captain had ever seen in his nearly two centuries of life. He had heard the tales from the far northern reaches of Middle-Earth of course, they all had, stories of great flying beasts that breathed flame, beasts of cruel intellect and unstoppable might. But he never thought he would ever come face-to-face with one of the beasts. One was a blood red, the other an arctic blue, both with teeth like swords, talons like spears, and wings like the sails of great flying ships.

Then he saw something that shocked him even more than the sudden appearance of two dragons in the air above his bow. The dragons had _riders_. In all the tales of dragons he had heard, dragons were creatures of hate with love for nothing other than gold and jewels, with no love for the mortal races that smelted and carved them. Never had any of the tales told of dragons permitting mortals to **ride** them!

"I am Varscir Targaryen, dragonrider of Valeria," the rider of the crimson dragon declared in a booming voice. "You are within the territory of the Valerian Freehold. What brings you into these waters foreigner?"

It took a moment for the Captain to realize that he had been spoken to, then another to gather his thoughts enough to reply. "I am Erendar, son of Alendil, Lord of Numenor. We came here on a voyage of discovery. We were not aware any of the kindreds of Men resides in this new land. It is an honor to meet Men capable of taming such mighty beasts as those you now ride."

He couldn't see him well, but the Captain was certain the dragonrider smirked at that. "Well then," he laughed. "Come with us, Lord of Numenor. If it is discovery you seek. There is much for you to discover. You shall be my guests." The wind from the dragons' wingbeats grew stronger as the crimson dragon launched itself high into the air, soaring ahead of them. The azure dragon remained behind, lifting itself higher but remaining close to the ship. The message was clear: We might be polite, but you are my prisoners.

The Captain was certain he should have been angry, or perhaps afraid. But now that the shock had worn off, his thoughts had begun to race. Discovering a new continent was an exceptional feat, but uncovering an entire civilization with the strange power to master even mighty dragons? Well, if such a man could open up trade with such a nation, he could become a very powerful man indeed. Such a man could change history.


	3. Chapter 1

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 1

Third Age 2941

Dol Guldur, Mirkwood

Olorin, known among Elves as Mithrandir and among Men as Gandalf the Grey, had often striven with the other members of the White Council, urging them to act against the Necromancer of Dol Guldur, whom he had long suspected of being Sauron in disguise. But Saruman the White, leader of the White Council and Gandalf's senior among the Istari, also known as the Five Wizards, had each time laughed at the other wizard's suspicions, proclaiming Sauron to be long defeated. While some, such as the Lady Galadriel and Cirdan the Shipwright, had shared Gandalf's suspicions, the Council each time had followed the counsel of Saruman. For the wisest minds in Middle-Earth, the members of the White Council could be quite stubborn.

So Gandalf braved the depths of the forbidden fortress and learned for himself in those dark passages the truth: the Necromancer was in fact Sauron, returned to Middle-Earth and growing in both strength and influence. At last Saruman relented in his opposition to action, and the Council moved against Sauron as one.

The night was dark, the sort of darkness that only Mirkwood could hold. The moon and stars were nowhere to be seen, the tangled branches forming an impassable barrier keeping all light far from the forest floor. For years none had come this close to the Dol Guldur, and thus these woods had not seen light for a very long time. That time was over.

They strode through the night together, their light pushing back the oppressive darkness of Mirkwood. Many times had they met and debated, but never before had they marched together into battle. Now they came, arrayed in power and light, cutting through the forest to the fortress beyond. At their head strode Glorfindel, the mightiest among them in power, sent back from the Halls of Mandos by the Valar themselves, his skin glowing with the light of Aman. Behind came the bearers of the three Elven Rings, Galadriel with Nenya, the Ring of Water, Elrond with Vilya, the Ring of Air, and Gandalf with Narya, the Ring of Fire. Gandalf bore both his staff and the blade Glamdring, while Elrond held his blade Hadhafang at the ready. Galadriel bore no weapon, for she needed none. Behind them came Saruman the White and Radagast the Brown, each with staff in hand, with Círdan the Shipwright alongside them, wielding a bright spear.

The dark creatures of Mirkwood fled before them, the assembled Wise stopping at the edge of the forest to stare up at the ruined fortress above them. Dol Guldur was a place of terror, dread clinging to the very stones, the air filled with vile power. A haze of shadow covered the fortress, an ethereal barrier of dark power. As the White Council approached the barrier pushed back, but as one they raised their hands and light flashed, the dark barrier parting before them like water.

They climbed the worn stone steps of the ancient stronghold, the stairs opening to a large open plateau that might have once been a large chamber at the crown of some great tower, but now stood open to the night. Once they all stood in the remains of the chamber a darkness filled the night air, shadows swirling around them menacingly.

"So," a foul voice whispered from the darkness, the words hissing out in the ancient Black Speech. "You all come here, to me." A cruel laugh echoed around them, the Elves and Wizards forming into a circle facing out on all sides, waiting for the inevitable strike. "Your power is great, but if you were truly Wise you would have never come to this place. Here my power reigns." The darkness grew stronger, creeping closer as if to smother their light.

"I don't like this, Gandalf," Radagast whispered to his friend. "I don't like this at all."

"He is but one," Gandalf replied. "He cannot stand against us all."

The foul voice laughed once more. "Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky," it hissed. "Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone…"

"Nine for mortal men, doomed to die," Galadriel finished with a whisper as out of the oppressive darkness stepped nine shades, the spectral images of men in armor, wielding various weapons and wearing crowns, each bearing on their finger a single golden ring, a red jewel blazing with cruel light.

"Nazgul!" whispered Radagast, clutching his staff tighter. "Ring-wraiths!"

"You cannot fight the Shadow," the wraiths hissed in unison. "Your lights will fade, and this world will fall!"

Elrond scoffed. "And you should have stayed dead."

The plateau erupted into conflict, the Nazgul and the White Council fighting a battle of wills as much as blades. For the creatures of the Unseen Realm had no fear of swords, their substances formed from mind and power instead of flesh. But for the Wise, blades and staffs alike were only foci for their wills and their power, their fëa burning brightly against the darkness.

The wraiths moved with unnatural speed, striking at an Elf-Lord one moment then appearing to strike a Wizard in the next, their spectral blades seeking to cut through the souls of their adversaries. Glorfindel's golden hair flew through the air as he fought, his body glowing brightly as he cut through the foul wraiths, the undead kings fleeing before his wrath. Gandalf fought with both spell and sword, Glamdring striking a wraith just as a flash of flame from his staff sent another tumbling down the side of the fortress. Elrond and Círdan moved in a whirl of metal, spear and blade moving swift as the wind, while Galadriel fought with naught but words and gestures, a wave of her hand sending wraiths flying. Saruman was truly a sight to behold as he launched spell after spell, words of power leaving his lips to strike the wraiths with great wrath. Even Radagast fought with surprising ferocity, taking the shape of a great bear one moment to strike at one wraith, then shifting into a mighty stag to attack another, before changing into a great bird of prey to strike one from above. Not since the fall of Morgoth had such a display of power been seen in Middle-Earth, as the Istari and the lords of the Eldar stood together against the Shadow.

As the Nazgul weakened in their assault, falling one by one to the wrath of the Wise, Saruman pulled a special blade from his robes, a dagger forged by the Men of Westernesse in the days of Arnor. One of the wraiths moved to strike him, and instead found itself impaled upon the small blade. The jeweled eyes of the snake on the pommel flashed red and the wraith let out an unearthly shriek, curling in on itself before **shattering** , shards of spectral armor scattering before evaporating into the night air. The ring fell from the wraith's finger as it shattered, and Saruman, a dark gleam in his eye, grasped at the ring as it fell. However, to his dismay the ring slipped from his grasp, rolling away and falling off the edge of the plateau, far down into the darkness below.

The rest of the Wise turned to Saruman, their eyes filled with wonder. The blade of the dagger disintegrated, leaving him with a pommel, the jeweled eyes of the engraved serpent now dull. None of the other Nazgul had dropped their rings as they were defeated. All knew that the Nazgul could not truly die, they could only be weakened and beaten back, to return when their strength was gathered once more. But this, this was something different. Even Sauron feared this new power, and they could all sense it.

In this moment Galadriel brought her will to bear against the Dark Lord's, her face and form shining like the sun, straining against the darkness all about. "You have no power here," she declared, her voice filled with power, "servant of Morgoth! You are Nameless! Faceless! Formless! Go back to the Void from whence you came!" The other members of the Council stumbled back, their great power seeming small in the face of a conflict of such mighty wills. With one final cry Galadriel's will broke Sauron's, the Necromancer letting out an unholy howl as the darkness fled from them, the Dark Lord's spirit racing south and leaving the tower-top barren. Galadriel staggered, the light draining from her as she fell to the earth.

"He will flee south," she whispered as Elrond ran to her side. "To Mordor."

"Gondor must be warned," Elrond added.

"You must watch over the Lady Galadriel," Saruman argued. "She has spent much of her power. Her strength is failing. Take her to Lothlorien. Without the Ring of Power, Sauron can never hold dominion over Middle-Earth. Go now!" Saruman turned away, his gaze following the path the Nazgul's ring made down into the depths of the fortress. "Leave Sauron to me."

. . . . .

The man had not been in the service of the Dark Lord for long, by the reckoning of Powers. Only a few short years had he learned at the feet of the Necromancer, learning the ways of the dark arts. He had sworn himself into eternal service, and in exchange he learned foul sorcery, the sort wielded only by a blessed few. Already the dark power had begun to twist his form, lengthening his years while giving him a nearly monstrous appearance and filling his days with exquisite pain.

All that pain would be worth it, with his recent discovery. A Ring of Power, somehow fallen from the finger of one of the Nine. His master would not want this to fall into the hands of the enemy. He did not know the details of what had happened above, but he could feel that his master was no longer in the fortress. He would need to travel long to find his Lord again, but he knew that he would be rewarded richly for returning this prize. Perhaps such a deed would be worthy of a particular reward…

He clasped his fingers around the ring, breathing deeply of its intoxicating power. Yes, his master would have no choice but to give the ring to one worthy of its great power…

. . . . .

Third Age 2951

The Black Gate, Mordor

Athelon paced aimlessly across the dark battlements that dread night. To one side was the endless expanse of the Brown Lands, stretching as far as the eye could see. To the other, the black crags and thick smoke of Mordor prevailed. But his mind was neither of these places. It was far away, wandering the woods of Gondor, walking with his beloved Laria. They danced together in the moonlight, away from all care and sorrow, just the two of them together.

"Hey, Athelon, you there?" Athelon was thrust from his waking dream and he turned to look at the ranger who addressed him, a good man named Barathor.

"I am now," he answered, shaking his head and laughing quietly at himself. "I was just thinking of how great it would be to be anywhere other than this blasted place."

"You and me both," Barathor agreed with a laugh. "Nothing like the smell of brimstone and the sight of endless black rocks to make you wish for home."

"So you're the unlucky sop to get night-guard duty?"

"That would be me. What about you? What are you doing up and about at this hour?"

Athelon shrugged. "I couldn't sleep. Needed some fresh air, or at least what passes for it around here."

. . . . .

While the rangers were talking, a sea of dark forms moved silently across the black earth of Mordor, invisible in the darkness of night. Looking down, the rangers would fail to see the truth of what was coming for them: orcs, hundreds of them. In the forefront of the horde were orcs of a larger, stronger breed. These Uruks were smarter than regular orcs and could bear the light of the sun, and tonight they were the leaders of the strike force. They all wore nothing save simple loincloths and their blades, favoring silence over protection. The rangers would have no idea what hit them.

. . . . .

Barathor was telling a story about his brother that Athelon was almost certain was entirely false when something caught Athelorn's eye. "Wait," Athelon hissed, holding up his hand to silence the other as he looked back over the Gate. He stared for a while and saw nothing. He was almost ready to admit he had been mistaken when he saw it again; the glint of the light from the torches on steel, **halfway up the walls**. Orcs.

"Orcs!" Athelon shouted, charging down the battlements towards the barracks. "We're under attack!" Barathor took up the cry as well, sweeping out his bow and beginning to fire on the creatures below. Athelon roused as many men as he could as swiftly as possible, but when he returned to the walls it was already a bloodbath. Orcs swarmed the battlements, the rangers outnumbered ten to one, savage Uruks leading the charge against the men of Gondor. Athelon took the opportunity to put arrows through the eyes of a pair of particularly brutish Uruks before pulling out his sword and charging into the fray himself. Their captain took the lead and with Athelon at his side the rangers pushed back the assault. Everything was a haze of smoke and blood as Athelon slashed through orcs on every side, his blade striking true again and again, only for more of the savage beasts to fill his view.

Finally the orcs were pushed back off the walls, and Athelon had a moment to clear his mind. He stared at the carnage around him, his heart dropping when he saw Barathor's body lying on the ground, a cruel orcish blade embedded in his chest. At least it looked like it had been a swift death. Some of the others had not been so lucky. "Athelon," came the resolute voice of his captain. "I am leaving you in charge of our defenses here. I am leading the effort to reclaim the rest of the Gate."

"I won't disappoint you sir," Athelon answered forcefully, saluting.

"Save the salute for when we survive this," the captain told him with a smirk, turning and running off, half of the rangers following after him.

"Alright, you heard the man," Athelon told the remaining rangers. "We need to keep this section secure."

It was bloody work from then on out. The orcs died quickly, but that just meant more thick black ichor for Athelon and the others to slip on. While the dead of the orcs vastly outnumbered their own dead, they were far from without their own losses. But still they held. That is, until something else came. It was something unlike anything Athelon had felt before, a dark presence that chilled him to the bone. He felt small, an insignificant fly beneath the gaze of that terrible thing. The attacks redoubled, the orcs seemingly emboldened by the evil entity slowly coming towards them. Every instinct in Athelon's body told him to run, to flee. Whatever that thing was, it would not be destroyed by steel or force of arms. He didn't know how he knew it, but he knew. The night somehow grew even more dark, and he knew that whatever it was, it was almost upon them.

He couldn't help himself. He was powerless before the dread presence of that dark being, his fear taking control. He ran. He turned tail and fled, leaving his men and brothers behind as he ran for his life with everything he had in him. He didn't look back, couldn't look back, not even as he heard the screams, nor as those screams were silenced. He didn't look back until he was far, far away, and even then, it wasn't long before he turned again and continued moving as far as he could from the screams echoing through his mind.

. . . . .

Third Age 2952

Rivendell

The sound of elven song drifted on the wind, sunlight streaming through the clouds to illuminate the hidden valley of Imladris. The Last Homely House East of the Sea was one of the only remaining homes of the High Elves in Middle-Earth, and it was there that the glory of the Elder Days could still be seen. It was here, in the home of Elrond Halfelven, that Gandalf the Grey had come to ponder the future.

"You have felt it, haven't you Mithrandir?"

Gandalf heard the half elf's words, but didn't respond. The wind sang through the trees and the river laughed its way through the valley of Imladris. Here in Rivendell, it was easy to believe that all was well in the world. But it was not. The White Council had driven the Necromancer from Dol Guldur and the great dragon Smaug was dead, but it seemed new threats would always arise.

"I have felt it," the wizard finally answered. "A shadow in the west, in lands far away."

"Lands that you have walked," Elrond added.

Gandalf turned and gave the half-elf a quizzical look, feeling that there was more behind Elrond's statement than what lay on the surface. "Yes. And your question is?"

"You intend to return to Westeros." It was not a question. While he did not share Galadriel's aptitude in seeing into the minds of others, there was little that escaped the elf-lord's attention.

"And what if I do?" Gandalf asked, sounding almost defensive. He did not answer to Elrond, a fact the elf-lord knew very well.

"Why do you concern yourself with them?" Elrond questioned. "The race of Men has dwindled, none more so than that savage people. The men of Westeros are cruel, vindictive, lustful, and treacherous. They cannot be trusted. They are best left to their fate."

"You underestimate them," Gandalf countered. "It is true that there are many among them that let their fouler natures hold sway. But there are also many among them that seek to do what is right. You know there is good in them. It was your foresight that saved the Targaryens from the Doom of Valyria."

Elrond shook his head, his voice tired. "That was a long time ago, and that tale was one of blood and conquest. The world has changed, Gandalf. There is no strength left in the race of Men."

"We shall see."


	4. Chapter 2

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 2

Third Age 2952/ 299 After Conquest

Dragonstone, The Crownlands

 _The night is dark and full of terrors._ Davos had never taken much stock in any of the Red Woman's words, but this night that line in particular took on new meaning. He was on a rock outcropping outside the fortress, as he had hoped the night air would clear his mind. Unfortunately, it was having quite the opposite effect. A darkness had settled on Dragonstone. It was not the usual darkness of night, but something thick and oppressive, like a living thing, a black serpent coiling itself around the volcanic island. Davos felt a chill deep in his bones, every fiber of his being telling him that something was not right.

"You look frightened Sir Davos." Davos jumped at the words, spinning around to see Melisandre watching him, as frighteningly tranquil as ever in her long crimson gown, the unnatural cold seeming to have no effect on her.

"With all due respect milady," he stammered, "I would greatly appreciate it if you didn't come from the shadows like that, especially on a night like this one." With her strange… powers, there were few people in the Seven Kingdoms Davos feared more than her, and he knew that she knew it. "Maybe you could ask that fire god of yours to make the night a little less dark," he added in a flimsy attempt to hide his fear with humor. _This isn't natural,_ he thought to himself. Then a chilling thought found its way into his mind. "You wouldn't have something to do with this, would you?"

Melisandre didn't look at him, her gaze distant, gazing out across the bay to the sea beyond. "This shadow is not of my making," she finally answered. Her voice sounded... confused. "Something will happen tonight," she added. "Something that will forever alter the fate of Westeros." With that she turned around and stalked off towards the keep. Something about that seemed off as well. It was too... abrupt. After a moment of consideration, Davos realized what it was. _She is afraid._ Whatever was going to happen, Davos didn't want to meet the sort of thing that would scare **her**.

. . . . .

Through the dark waters of the unfamiliar bay came a ship with black sails, as if the vessel had been crafted from the night itself. Aboard the vessel were many men, working tirelessly to keep the pace required by their feared passenger. The men were Corsairs of Umbar, dark-skinned, cruel men, descendants of mixed Haradrim and Numenorean lines, with all the craftiness of Numenor and all the cruelty of Harad. Usually they were simply pirates, pillaging the coasts of Middle-Earth and far eastern Essos, but on this voyage they had been pressed into service for a greater purpose. The voyage was long and their master fearful, but they were finally near their destination: an island fortress, home to one of the self-proclaimed "kings" of this distant land. They shouted at one another, hauling ropes and pushing oars, grunting in effort as they pushed onwards.

All noise hushed as a figure stepped from the hold, cloaked in shadow, iron-shod feet striking the floorboards. The dark figure strode to the prow of the ship, taking in the view before him. "Westeros," the Mouth of Sauron hissed. "Soon you too will belong to my Master. And you will give yourselves willingly." He cradled the box in his hands almost lovingly, envy filling him at the thought that this great gift was being wasted on the peoples of this wild land instead of given to one more worthy of its power. But his Master commanded, and he obeyed.

The ship silently sailed into harbor, and the Black Lieutenant stepped off alone. He smiled at the darkness that had already enveloped the island. Sauron's reach grew ever longer, and when his task was complete, it would be long indeed. He strode towards the castle, his steps sure and slow. There was no need for urgency in this matter. It was already done.

. . . . .

Stannis's guards stopped the strange intruder not long after he set foot on the island and he hadn't resisted as they restrained him. Now Stannis sat on his throne in Dragonstone, Melisandre on his right hand and Sir Davos on his left, as the intruder was brought forward. "So who are you and what is your business here?" Stannis questioned, skipping the theatrics. He had little use for such things. He was curious and wanted answers. The sword his men had taken from the stranger was of strange workmanship, unlike anything Stannis had seen before, but seemed almost as strong as Valyrian steel, and his armor seemed to be of the same make. Whoever this man was, he was not from anywhere Stannis was familiar.

"I was sent from Sauron, the Lord of Mordor and rightful ruler of Middle-Earth, and I am but his Mouth" the stranger answered, his voice somewhat off, as if he had breathed nothing but noxious fumes his whole life, yet the more he spoke, the more impelled Stannis was to listen. "My Master has heard much of your struggles in this land, and I have traveled far to reach you." Looking upon him, Davos felt like he was going to be sick. There was something **wrong** about that man, twisted in a way he had never seen before. The mesmerizing nature of his voice only further repelled Davos, convincing him that this foreign messenger was no friend of theirs.

"And why has your master sent you here?" Stannis questioned.

"To give you a gift only a true king would be worthy of." The Mouth of Sauron reached into his cloak and pulled out a simple black box, cradling it between his hands. Davos glared at the guards and they looked back at him in shock and confusion. They had found nothing of the sort on his person in their search. "My Master is great and powerful," the Mouth told Stannis. "Skilled in all manner of craftsmanship and magic. He has fashioned this gift specifically for you, to aid you in claiming what is rightfully yours." He opened the box, revealing inside to be a single golden ring, crowned with a crimson gem that seemed to have a fiery radiance all its own.

Stannis's first instinct was to scoff at the concept. A ring, give him the power to take Westeros? But the longer he looked at the ring, the more he became lost in the depths of its fiery jewel. There was power there, he could feel it. The ring called out to him, offering him the world. All he needed to do was claim it for himself...

"Sir, I must advise against this," Davos interjected. He too felt the power and allure of the ring, but with it he sensed the same darkness that he felt when he looked upon the man before them. "This is no gift. It is a trap. The Red Woman's god is one thing, but this is-"

"Silence, Davos," Stannis commanded harshly. Davos cut off, watching in surprise as his king continued to stare at the deceptively small piece of jewelry. "Melisandre, what do your flames tell you?" Stannis finally asked, almost absentmindedly.

The priestess stared into the flames and they watched as her face grew first confused, then alarmed. "I... I see nothing, my king," she finally stammered out. "The future is hidden from me in this matter." She turned to the messenger, her gaze accusing. He only smiled, revealing his yellowed teeth.

Stannis contemplated this for several moments before continuing. "Fire is the sign of the Lord of Light, is it not?" he asked Melisandre, continuing on before she could answer. "I see his flames in the jewel of this ring. I have waited a long time for your god's promises to come true. If all is truly by his will, then this must be his answer at last. This is what will give me the power to take the Seven Kingdoms and claim the Iron Throne." He stood from his throne and walked down, the Mouth of Sauron bowing before him, the ring held out for him to take.

Davos knew that he had already stretched his king's patience, but he could not just stand by and watch Stannis be duped by this demon. "My king, you can't-"

"I will do what I please!" Stannis shouted at Davos, turning away from the ring just for a moment. "And you will obey your king." With that he turned back to Sauron's messenger and took the ring, holding it to the firelight before slipping it onto his finger. The room grew noticeably darker as he did so, but to Stannis's eyes it was brighter than ever before. "Now Westeros is **mine**." Bowing as he was, no one saw the sinister grin that spread across the face of the Mouth of Sauron. The corruption and conquest of Westeros had begun.

. . . . .

King's Landing, The Crownlands

The sun shone high in the sky above the fair elven vessel. Fashioned in the image of a great swan, the ship almost seemed to be alive as it soared across the waves, sails like wings spread far to catch the wind. The crew moved with a grace possessed only by the Eldar, each of them moving as if they had spent a dozen lifetimes of men on the deck of that ship, which they very well might have.

Gandalf looked out across the sea, his gaze drawn to the west, towards the distant but ever nearer shore. He new the mariners accompanying him also had their gazes turned to the west, though their eyes looked beyond the nearing shoreline to a far more distant shore, to a land now beyond the circle of the world. Gandalf too longed to see once more the beauty and light of Aman, but his task on this earth was not yet completed. It was that task that drew him to this land, so far from either Valinor and Middle-Earth in both leagues and people. It was a harsh land, but beautiful regardless.

Long ago, Gandalf spent over a century in the land of Westeros, attempting to guide its people towards a brighter future. He advised Kings and tutored young lords, including young Robert Baratheon and young Eddard Stark. Unfortunately, much of his work was destroyed by the growing madness of a king he had once called friend.

In the distance, Gandalf saw a city begin to take shape on the shore. Last time he had set foot in King's Landing, Robert Baratheon had only recently been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. Gandalf would have preferred if Eddard had taken the throne, as he was the more level-headed of the two, but he had refused the crown. But with Robert on the throne, advised by their mutual friend Jon Arryn, Gandalf had trusted the future of Westeros in their hands and returned to Middle Earth. Now nearly two decades later, a shadow hung over Westeros, and Gandalf feared for his old friends.

. . . . .

Jack had seen a lot of things in his days working on the docks of King's Landing. Ships from all over Westeros and Essos entered the harbor, and peoples of all kinds had passed Jack as he went about his duties. But in all his life, he had never seen anything like he did now. It was a ship, whiter than white, almost seeming to glow in the sunlight, as different from the other ships in the docks as gold was from dirt.

As it drew nearer, he caught sight of the crew and his breath was once more stolen from his lungs. They were tall and beautiful, ethereal beings unlike any man or woman he had ever seen or even imagined. They moved with inhuman grace and he could have sworn that a few of them even glowed. He could not imagine where such a vessel or crew could have come from other than the Heavens themselves. Then he saw a sight that was even stranger than the heavenly vessel and its crew, if only for its absurd normalcy.

On the deck of the pure white vessel, standing amidst the ethereal crew, was a single old man. He was robed in a grey cloak, a pointed blue hat adorning his head. His long grey beard fell down to his chest and he leaned on a gnarled wooden staff. The old man looked like he belonged on that boat as much as a rat did at a king's banquet, but there he was. The ship docked and the man disembarked, the strange vessel leaving soon after. Jack kept his eyes on the old man until he was lost in the crowds of King's Landing, a million questions in his mind. He was just a simple dockworker, with no understanding of the matters of kings or gods. That night at the tavern he would tell everyone the tale, and no one would believe him. He would tell the tale a few more times, but as the humdrum of life continued, the story, wondrous as it was, would fade from his mind. He had no way of knowing how this one event would change Westeros forever.

. . . . .

The Red Keep was a truly great feat of architecture, a monument to this land's bloody history of conquest. It seemed like only a short time ago Gandalf had stood next to the Iron Throne and advised King Aerys as his most trusted advisor, before his descent into madness, even less since he had helped Robert claim the throne. And now he wasn't even being allowed past the gates.

"We don't want any beggars here," one of the guards, a somewhat overweight lad, told him, blocking his path. "Run along old man."

"I am no beggar," Gandalf told them. "I am Gandalf the Grey, and I am a friend to King Robert Baratheon."

"Where have you been?" the other guard, a little older and leaner, asked with a laugh. "Robert's dead. Joffrey's king now."

Gandalf's shoulders sagged, years added to his features at the casual mention of his friend's death. Robert hadn't been his first choice for king, but he was a good man. What could have happened to him? He certainly had not died of old age. What schemes were afoot in Westeros? Was this a part of the darkness he had sensed? "I must speak with Robert's son. It is a matter of great urgency."

"The king doesn't want to be disturbed," the fat one responded. "No visitors allowed."

"You do not want to block my path," Gandalf warned, his voice dangerous.

"Get out of here before we make you, old man," the rough one commanded, his hand on his sword. Gandalf rose to his full height then, his frame seeming to expand before them, his eyes filled with fire. The guards hesitated, both taking a step backwards.

A new voice interrupted the exchange, Gandalf returning to normal and all three of them turning towards the source of the voice. "And what exactly is going on here?"

. . . . .

Tyrion, Bronn at his side, stood there staring at the group. "Well?" Tyrion asked, his gaze switching between the shocked guards and the strange old man, all of whom were looking down at him. "What exactly is going on?"

"I suggest you answer his question," Bronn told them, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Th-this old beggar was trying to get into the keep," the fat guard stuttered, his eyes flitting between Tyrion and Bronn. "The king said that he wasn't to be disturbed."

Under normal circumstances, Tyrion would have discounted the old man just as the guards had, but he saw something in the eyes beneath those bushy eyebrows, something that told him there was much more to him than was apparent at first glance. "And who are you then?"

"My name is Gandalf," the old man answered. "I was a friend of the late King Robert. I had come hoping to speak to him, but it appears that I have arrived too late. In his absence, I hope to be able to give some small measure of wisdom to his heir in these dark times."

Tyrion smirked. He couldn't hear any lie in the old man's voice. If this man was lying, he was exceptionally good at it. Unfortunately, this old man seemed to be woefully uninformed as to the current state of things. "I think you will find Joffrey to be even less reasonable than his father."

"Be that as it may, there are grave tidings that I must bring to his knowledge."

"Alright." Tyrion turned back to the guards, waving his hand in a sweeping gesture. "Let him through." He was going to have fun seeing how this went.

The guards were stunned. "What?"

"I said, let him through," Tyrion answered, raising his voice. "Or are you going to disobey an order from the Hand of the King?"

"N-no sir, of course not!" The guards parted, opening the gates for them.

Gandalf smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "After you, my new friend."

. . . . .

Joffrey sat on the Iron Throne, the dark blades of the chair seeming to mirror his own cruelty. A small crowd of nobles, many of them major members of the court, watched as he had his Kingsguard beat his betrothed, Sansa Stark.

"Leave her face!" he commanded. "I like her pretty." Ser Meryn grabbed Sansa and punched her in the gut, the girl crying out and bending over in pain. He drew his sword, Joffrey smiling cruelly as he watched the sobbing Sansa be brutalized by his guard. Ser Meryn struck her across the back of her legs, sending her falling to the ground. Everyone watched in horror, but no one dared speak up, fearing a punishment of their own.

"Ser Meryn, my lady is overdressed," Joffrey stated with a smirk, standing up and striding closer. "Unburden her." Meryn tore the back of her dress, Sansa barely managing to hold it over her chest as she cried, blinded by her tears. "If we want Robb Stark to hear us," Joffrey began, raising his voice, "we're going to have to speak louder!" Ser Meryn lifted his sword high, ready to strike-

"What's the meaning of this!?" cried out a voice.

. . . . .

Everyone in the hall turned to see Tyrion striding into the room, his sellsword Bronn and an old man leaning on a staff coming behind him. Joffrey stared in confusion and even a little fear as his uncle strode right up to the dais.

"What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?" Tyrion spat at Ser Meryn.

"The kind who serves his king, Imp!" he spat back.

"Careful now," Bronn interjected with a smirk, his hand on his sword, "we don't want to get blood all over your pretty white cloak." Ser Meryn glared at him but backed down.

"Someone get the girl something to cover herself with!" Tyrion commanded, the Hound obediently moving to cover Sansa with his cloak. "She is to be your queen! Have you no regard for her honor?" Tyrion questioned Joffrey, walking right up to the king.

"I'm punishing her!" the king squeaked.

"For what crimes? She did not fight her brother's battle, you half-wit!"

"You can't talk to me like that!" Joffrey exclaimed. "The king can do as he likes!"

"The Mad King did as he liked," Tyrion countered, the room growing silent. "Has your uncle Jaime ever told you what happened to him?"

Ser Meryn stepped forward, his hand on his sword. "No one threatens his grace in the presence of the Kingsguard!"

Tyrion was obviously done with this situation, his voice dripping with contempt. "I am not threatening the king ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, the next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him." Meryn's eyes darted over to Bronn in a flash of fear, and Tyrion smiled at him. "That was a threat. See the difference?"

The old man, who had said nothing, helped Sansa to her feet while everyone else was busy posturing. After everyone else was finished speaking he finally turned to Joffrey, seeming to grow in stature. "Your father would be ashamed of you," he declared, his voice echoing through the hall. "For all his faults, Robert was a man of honor. If he had seen what just transpired, he would have had you disciplined like the beast you are."

"Who are you?" Joffrey cried. "You can't speak to me like that!

"I am Gandalf the Grey," he answered, the power of his voice seeming to push Joffrey back, forcing him back onto his throne. "I advised King Aegon V and King Aerys before his descent into madness. I gave counsel to Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark during their rebellion against the Mad King, and if it were not for me, Robert would never have sat in that chair and you would have never been born. Sit here now and be silent!"

It was obvious that Joffrey wanted to say something, likely order his men to have Gandalf executed, but he could say nothing, the words caught in his mouth as if some force was holding them back. Gandalf turned around and he, Tyrion, and Bronn left the throne room with Sansa.

"I apologize for my nephew's behavior," Tyrion whispered. "Tell me the truth. Do you want an end to this engagement?"

"I am loyal to King Joffrey," Sansa answered stiffly. "My one true love."

Tyrion held back, letting her pass with her servants. "Lady Stark," he whispered to himself, "you may survive us yet."

"There is much we must discuss," Gandalf whispered from behind him. "It is obvious I cannot expect any amount of reason from our new king. There is much I must learn about what has transpired, and much more that you must know about what is to come."

"Well then, follow me," Tyrion replied. "Anyone who can shut Joffrey up has my interest, if nothing else. I am fascinated to hear what you have to say."


	5. Chapter 3

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 3

Third Age 2952/ 299 After Conquest

King's Landing, The Crownlands

"And who exactly is this old beggar who dares storm into the throne room and call my son a beast?" Cersei demanded. She looked around at the men around her, all of them sitting around the meeting table in the Small Council Chamber. Save for Tyrion, all members of the Small Council were accounted for, though the Small Council kept getting smaller. The inscrutable Varys, Master of Whispers, his face as impassive as ever, and Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, known to most as Littlefinger, the usual half-smile on his face, both said nothing in answer to the Queen's question. "Well? Who is he?"

"He calls himself Gandalf the Grey, my lady," Varys answered calmly. "I've had my little birds watching him since I got word of the… event in the throne room. He does not appear to have done much of note since then, other than meeting privately with your brother the Lord Hand."

"Of course Tyrion would be involved," Cersei hissed. "What is he scheming now?"

"He is also not lying about his relationship with your late husband," Varys added, leaning forward. "Or to the Mad King. He left King Aerys's service not long after I entered into that same service and he has not been seen in Westeros since Robert took the throne, but I recognized his description. He does not appear to have changed much in the years since then. I took the liberty of going to speak with the Grand Maester about this Gandalf. He was apparently an old man already when Pycelle first met him as a young Maester, and he has never liked the man. He would come and go as he pleased, appearing in the capital often as a bearer of ill news. Both Aerys and his father counted him among their most trusted advisors and friends. Gandalf apparently even helped tutor the young Rhaegar. It seems that this Gandalf liked Pycelle even less than Pycelle does him, calling the Maesters all empty-headed fools."

"And I stand by that statement." Everyone turned around to see the old man walk into the room, his strange pointed blue hat drooping forward as he leaned on his gnarled staff for support. "While I believe the exact words I used were 'closed-minded,' empty-minded is equally accurate."

"What are you doing here?" Cersei demanded, standing abruptly in her seat. "This meeting is for members of the Small Council only!"

"Well then it's a good thing that our new friend is a member of the Small Council," Tyrion countered, strutting into the chamber. He smiled at his sister and got a sneer in response, a familiar ritual by now. "Though I must admit, I was surprised when I was not told of this meeting. It's one thing for you to be ignorant of our wizened friend's status, but I'm fairly certain you are all aware of my place on the Council."

"A simple misunderstanding, my Lord Tyrion," Littlefinger replied cooly. "We had no intention of offending you. We simply thought you occupied with other matters."

"What do you mean, calling this stranger a member of the Small Council?" Cersei questioned.

Tyrion smiled broadly, taking a seat with Gandalf following suite. "Well, that would probably be because of this decree we found from our dear departed King Robert:" He pulled out a piece of paper and handing it to her. Without reading the paper she tore it in half, staring her brother down, which just made Tyrion smile more. "As exceptional as you are at ripping up papers Sister, I'm afraid this particular decree isn't quite so easy to destroy. For one thing, that is just a copy of the original document. But beyond that, if you were to actually look at the paper, you would see the seal of not one, but three kings on it."

Looks of confusion appeared on Cersei and Littlefinger faces, while a look of recognition appeared on Varys face. Cersei glanced around the table, her confusion growing as she saw the expression on the Spider's face. She quickly picked up the torn halves of the document, putting them together to read the message it contained.

"Penned and sealed by Aegon V, resealed by Aerys Targaryen, and resealed again by King Robert," Tyrion stated as his sister read. "Declaring Gandalf the Grey Special Advisor to the King, with a special seat on the Small Council that can be filled by no one other than himself. Nor can this seat be taken from him as long as the Seven Kingdoms still stand." He smiled again, watching his sister's face as she read. "There's some other fancy words in there, but to be brief in speaking, he's here to stay."

"At least until some sense and reason are returned to Westeros," Gandalf huffed. "Just a few short months since Robert's death and the realm has fallen into madness," he turned to Cersei, "and all because of that goblin you call a son." She looked as if she was about to object, but something dangerous flashed in his eyes and she closed her mouth, though she seemed confused at her own decision. Gandalf turned so as to face not only her, but Varys and Littlefinger as well. "When Joffrey gave the order to kill Eddard Stark, you stood by and did nothing. Because of that, this kingdom has been shattered…" he let out a tired breath, some of the force leaving his words, "and the last truly good man in Westeros is gone."

"Ned Stark was a traitor," Cersei spat, seeming to break from whatever spell held her tongue. "He tried to steal the throne for himself!"

Gandalf laughed, though the sound lacked its usual mirth. "I have no patience for falsehoods," he huffed. "Especially not falsehoods as poor as that. You only had to know Ned for a moment to see that he was incapable of even thinking of such things." He lowered his voice, staring Cersei down. "And I knew him far longer than that. I have not come across all the great seas of this world to bandy crooked words with you. If you wish to lie, do it elsewhere."

Cersei did not say anything more.

"Now," Gandalf continued. "We must see to bringing some sense back to this kingdom…"

. . . . .

Oxcross, the Westerlands

The past year had not been kind to Athelon. His once bright mail was dim and beginning to show signs of rust, his grey cloak stained brown with mud and worse. You could just barely manage to make out the faded outline of the White Tree of Gondor on his tunic, but only if you knew what you were looking for, and even that was a stretch. Not that he had any desire for anyone to recognize the symbol. He wasn't worthy of it anymore.

He wandered through the forests and the hills, staying away from the main roads. Too many soldiers on the roads lately. He had no interest in being conscripted into any of these warring armies. Well, to be more accurate, he had no interest in any of these armies _attempting_ to conscript him. His chain mail may have grown rusty, but his skills with a blade and a bow had not. He doubted any of the soldiers he had seen on the roads could defeat a goblin, much less a Ranger of Gondor, even a disgraced one.

When he had first heard of the lands west of Middle-Earth, he had not known what to expect. After facing that… shadow at the Black Gate, Athelon had traveled south. Athelon knew no greater dishonor than deserting his post and abandoning his brothers, and he knew that if he stayed in Gondor he would die, but neither could he return to face that horror. So he left the civilized world behind, fleeing into the lands of the Haradrim, hoping the hot sands would bury his shame. But if there was one thing in which Athelon was skilled, it was surviving. Perhaps he was too good at it.

Athelon was broken from his thoughts as the forest opened up and he found himself in a large clearing, a particularly vile collection of scents assailing his nostrils. He bowed his head, his eyes pained as he looked around, his gaze met by a thousand empty eyes. Countless corpses lay on the field before him, some headless, others with their innards spilling out of their bellies, all of them stinking of blood, rot, and excrement.

 _These poor souls,_ Athelon thought to himself as he wandered amongst the remains of the battlefield. Most of them were boys, little more then children. He guessed that this place must have been a training ground of some sort, as he doubted many of them had ever held a spear before they had been slaughtered. He didn't know much of the names of the different noble houses that ruled these lands, but he assumed the Red Lions were the ones to have lost this battle, as it was their dead that littered the earth. The victors had likely dug graves for their own dead and left the defeated to rot.

 _If this were Gondor, this would be different. The dead would be treated with respect, enemy and ally alike. Even the foul orcs are at least given the decency of being burned._ But this wasn't Gondor. This was Westeros, a land where men spoke as foully as orcs, befouled themselves for a single night of pleasure, and murdered one another for no purpose beyond the petty squabbles of this lord or that.

 _But can you really judge them? You abandoned your post, fled like a coward. You ran while your brothers were slaughtered by shadows in the night._ Word had reached him, even while he hid in Harad. The Black Gate had fallen, taken by the Dark Lord's armies as he returned to Mordor and began rebuilding his ancient fortress. The Black Gate had been the last of the fortifications guarding the paths out of Mordor, ever since Minas Ithil had fallen to the Nazgul and become Minas Morgul almost a thousand years before. Even the ancient capital of Osgiliath had been in ruins for centuries. Now only Minas Tirith stood to protect the Free Peoples against the terror of Mordor.

It was likely that if he remained, nothing would have changed. The Black Gate would have likely still fallen, with the only difference being one more corpse on its walls. But at least then he would have died with honor.

Athelon sighed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of it all. Searching through the corpses, he eventually found an axe that would work well enough as a shovel. He couldn't bury all of them, but he could give at least a few of them a half-decent burial before he moved on. Perhaps it might even convince his conscience to give him at least one full night's sleep.

. . . . .

Dragonstone, the Crownlands

The night was dark, though not as dark as it had been on the night when the Mouth first came to Dragonstone. _Thank the gods for that,_ Davos thought to himself. He strode down the dark stone outside the fortress, towards the only bit of color visible in the dark of the night. He settled in next to the crimson-robed form of the Red Priestess, remaining silent for a moment. He had never liked the woman, but more and more the two of them seemed to be forced together, if only because their new "guest" kept finding ways to push them both further from Stannis. "I don't trust him," Davos finally said.

"No?" Melisandre turned to Davos, raising an eyebrow. "Last I checked, you did not trust me either."

"I still don't trust you," Davos replied candidly. "But as much as I distrust you and your Red God, this is something else. He's… not right. Just standing next to him makes my skin crawl. There's something unnatural about him, and about that ring he gave Stannis. He's not been himself since he put that thing on his finger."

"Stannis believes that the ring is a gift from the Lord of Light."

"And what do you think?"

For a moment Melisandre was silent. "I cannot see the future in the flames," she answered. "It may be that our king is correct, and this is all a part of the Lord's plan. Perhaps it is a part of His plan, but not in the way our king believes. I do not know."

"Is there something we could do… some way to deal with this 'Mouth'?" He didn't want to say it aloud, but he knew that she understood him. As much as he feared her magic, he could see no other way.

Her lips formed a hard line. "The Lord of Light has given me great power, but this man… Wherever his power comes from, it is powerful magic. I am not sure I can do what you ask. I might have a way, but I cannot be sure. Even if possible, if would take time."

"But you might be able to do it?" Davos questioned. He didn't understand any of this, and the Red Woman's roundabout way of speaking didn't help. He just wanted a straight answer, something to make sense of the madness.

"Perhaps," she replied with the slightest of nods. "I will say no more."

. . . . .

Renly Baratheon's Camp, the Stormlands

The salty air of the sea washed over the Stormlands, large billowing white clouds protecting the two parties from the sun's brilliant rays. On one side flew bright green/blue banners with a golden stag, on the other grey banners with a black stag within a crimson heart engulfed in flames. Beneath the green banners Renly Baratheon, Catelyn Stark, Loras Tyrell, and various members of Renly's Kingsguard sat upon brilliant white horses, while beneath the grey banners Stannis Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, Melisandre, a dark cloaked figure in strange black armor, and various members of Stannis's Kingsguard sat upon raven-black horses. Renly wore his antlered stag crown while Stannis wore none, instead bearing a strange crimson-gemmed ring on his finger, a ring which seemed to naturally draw the gaze of all nearby, the gem almost glowing with a soft, fiery light.

A strange feeling filled the air as the two parties came together, a mix of anticipation and dread, much of the latter feeling seeming to come from the cloaked figure, as if the sensation was emanating from him in waves. Ser Davos seemed particularly uncomfortable, his eyes drifting constantly to the cloaked figure before darting back to face forward.

"Lady Stark," Stannis began coolly. "I'd not thought to find you in the Stormlands."

"I had not thought to be here, Lord Stannis," she replied with equal civility.

"Can that truly be you?" Renly questioned, his voice unbelieving. Catelyn guessed that it must have been a bit overwhelming for him, the possibility that he could be going to war with his own brother. She could only imagine how much that might have hurt. She wouldn't have believed it either if she was in his place.

"Who else might it be?" Stannis snapped back, hearing only the words.

Renly recovered quickly, smiling slightly as he spoke. "When I saw your standard I couldn't be sure. Whose banner is that?" He nodded his head towards one of the flaming stags billowing in the wind.

"My own," Stannis replied matter-of-factly.

Renly chuckled at that, his pain now well hidden. "I suppose if we used the same one the battle would be terribly confusing," he mocked. "Why is your stag on fire?"

Melisandre smiled at that, speaking with conviction. "The King has taken for his sigil the fiery heart of the Lord of Light."

"Ah, must be this fire priestess we hear so much about." Melisandre lifted her head with pride and Renly examined her, smiling knowingly. "Hm, brother. Now I understand why you found religion in your old age."

Melisandre lowered her head and smirked while Stannis glared at his younger brother. "Watch yourself Renly."

"No, no, I'm relieved!" Renly assured him. "I never really believed you were a fanatic. Charmless, rigid, a bore yes, but not a godly man."

"You should kneel before your brother," Melisandre interjected. "He's the Lord's chosen." She nodded her head towards him, Stannis staring impassively at his brother, rubbing the ring on his finger absentmindedly. "Born amidst salt and smoke."

"Born amidst salt and smoke?" Renly mocked. "Is he a ham?"

"That's twice I've warned you."

Catelyn opened her mouth to speak, but Renly cut her off. "And what is this creature you've got with you?" he asked with a laugh. "Have you called upon the grumkins and snarks to aid you? Or is this one of those dead men from beyond the wall that I keep hearing rumors about?"

"I am the Mouth of Sauron," the cloaked figure hissed through yellowed teeth. "Sent by the Lord of Mordor to aid the true king of Westeros claim his throne." He smiled, blackened and broken lips pealing back. "And to ensure the destruction of all pretenders."

Renly's steed whinnied fearfully, taking a step backward, as if it too could feel the aura of dread that emanated from the foul messenger. For a moment no one spoke, until finally Catelyn broke through the cloud of dread and turned to Stannis. "We share a common enemy," she told him. "You two should be working together, not bickering like children."

"The Iron Thone is mine, by right," Stannis spat, the light in his ring growing brighter. "All those that deny that are my foes."

"The whole realm denies it from Dorne to the Wall!" Renly mocked. "Old men deny it with their death-rattle and unborn children deny it in their mother's wombs." The longer he spoke, the more serious his voice became, dropping all pretense of mirth or mockery. "No one wants you for their king. You never wanted any friends, brother. But a man without friends is a man without power."

"For the sake of the mother who bore us, I will give you this one night to reconsider," Stannis declared. "Strike your banners, come to me before dawn, and I will grant you your old seat in the council. I'll even name you my heir, until a son is born to me." He paused, his words bearing an unnatural weight to them as he spoke. "Otherwise I shall destroy you."

Renly chose not to speak for a moment, looking back towards his encampment. "Look across those fields brother. Can you see all those banners?"

"You think a few bolts of cloth will make you king?" Stannis questioned.

"No," Renly shook his head. "The men holding those bolts of cloth will make me king."

"We shall see Renly," Stannis stated. "Come the dawn, we shall see." With that he spun his horse around, riding off towards his fleet. His men followed him, the Mouth of Sauron pausing beforehand, taking one last long look at all of them before finally departing. With his departure the air of dread left as well, everyone releasing a collective breath they didn't know they had been holding.

"Would you believe?" Renly muttered, his voice pained despite the smile on his face. "I loved him once."


	6. Chapter 4

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 4

Third Age 2952/ 299 After Conquest

At sea, off the coast of the Stormlands

The waves lapped gently against the side of the ship, the calm night air belying the storm to come. Melisandre looked out at the sea and the distant cliffs beyond, her thoughts racing. _He is the Warrior of Light,_ she assured herself. _I have seen it in the fire. The Lord of Light wants me to lead Stannis to his destiny, at any cost. Doing anything that must be done._

 _Then why is it that this does not feel like His will?_

She heard footsteps behind her but didn't turn around, her gaze still fixed on the waves. "The day you've been talking about for so long is finally here," Stannis stated, stepping beside her and looking out at the distant shoreline. "I didn't believe it at first," he admitted. "Not really. I said the words, I burned the idols, but I didn't see it. I couldn't see it. But now I have. I've seen it in the Ring. Staring into its depths, I've seen the future, with me sitting on the Iron Throne." He breathed in deeply, and Melisandre could feel the power emanating from him. Dark power.

"I did not expect to see you here, my King," Melisandre finally told him. "I am almost prepared to bring your son into this world. You will have your army soon."

"That is why I came," he replied. "I won't be needing that creature of yours tonight. I have the Ring. I will end Renly and claim my army myself."

Melisandre spun around in shock. "But my King…" she said hesitantly. "Your son **will** come into the world this night. I cannot stop his birth."

"Very well," Stannis muttered, turning away. "Send him to kill one Renly's generals then. Renly is mine, and mine alone. I will have Ser Davos smuggle you onto the shore."

"As you wish, my King." Stannis strode away, leaving Melisandre by herself. She was surprised by the turn of events, but not as much as she pretended. She had feared that this would happen. That Ring clouded his judgement and pushed him away from the guidance of the Lord of Light. And still she could not see the future in the fire. All of this began when the messenger of Mordor came to Dragonstone. As she prepared to leave with the Onion Knight, she allowed herself a bittersweet smile. Stannis's son would kill this night, but it wouldn't be Renly. Nor would it be one of his generals. As she had hinted at to Davos, she had another man in mind.

. . . . .

Renly Baratheon's Camp, the Stormlands

The Battle of Baratheon

"My king, I'm not sure this is the wisest course of action." Davos stated as he and Stannis looked down through the cold night air at the bright torches and endless tents of the vast army below. The two of them sat on horseback on a ridge overlooking the field, their much, much smaller force prepped and ready behind them. They had spoken about attacking at dawn as they had said they would, but at the counsel of the Mouth of Sauron Stannis changed his mind, the foul messenger insisting that a nighttime strike would not only give them the element of surprise, but that it would be when Stannis was strongest. Davos had tried to steer him from this plan, but the king ignored the former smuggler.

"I don't remember asking your opinion on the matter," Stannis answered plainly, his face showing no emotion. His thumb rubbed the Ring absentmindedly, the fiery gem glowing faintly in the darkness, though it didn't seem to give off any true illumination.

"Sir, that creature has been filling your head with lies," Davos insisted. "There is no way we can go down there and defeat all of Renly's armies. There are nearly a hundred thousand of them, while we have barely a couple thousand. It's simply not possible. We do not have anywhere near the numbers required to-"

"We don't need numbers," Stannis interrupted harshly. "Not anymore. We have the Ring." The object in question flashed brighter on his finger, a deep crimson radiance emanating from the gem, and Davos could swear that it somehow actually made the night darker.

Davos stammered, trying to think of a way to get his king, his friend, to listen. "Your grace, with all due respect-"

"That is enough, Sir Davos." His voice was cold, even for Stannis. "The Ring is mine, a gift from the Lord of Light. With its power, Renly will fall before me, and his bannermen will bend the knee. They do not have the power to stand before us. Now, let us end this."

Stannis slid his sword from its sheath and held it into the night air. The Ring flashed the color of fresh-spilt blood and the blade was instantly engulfed in flames. Davos watched as the fire curled around the sword, a strange fire that seemed to consist as much of shadow as it did actual flame. With a cry Stannis charged forward, his men taking up the cry and charging after him.

Renly's men responded swiftly. Contrary to the Mouth's claims, the night had failed to hide Stannis's approach. Renly's spies saw Stannis's forces moving long before they reached the camp, and Renly's forces were prepared. But unfortunately for them, it wasn't enough. Pikemen prepared to hold off the cavalry charge, bearing their weapons aloft, only to find not a man, but a specter, a demon of shadow and flame, leading the charge. An unnatural terror seized them, and those that did not flee were frozen as Stannis broke through their lines, slaughtering them. What had only moments before been a well-organized defense swiftly became a route, as tents went up in flames and men were cut down where they stood.

But magic ring or not, Stannis was still just one man. Renly's forces regrouped, and their far greater numbers became evident as Stannis's forces were surrounded and pushed back. But while his forces may have been repulsed, Stannis was not. He cut through men like they were toys, vanishing one moment and reappearing the next with his flaming sword through a soldier's back. Stannis stood amid a ring of charred corpses when Renly found him, his stomach threatening to violently abandon him at the sight. Stannis spun around in that moment, staring at Renly with a feral light in his eyes.

"Come then pretender!" Stannis shouted, spreading his arms in challenge. "Face me!" Renly's Kingsguard moved between them, and Stannis scoffed coldly. "You can't bar my path."

He charged, a large Kingsguard moving to intercept him, only to be thrown nearly a dozen feet by a backhanded blow. In the darkness it was impossible to tell if the blow actually connected, or if some other force had sent them flying. The other Kingsguard stumbled backwards as the flames of Stannis's blade roared to new life, turning the metal armor of the two foremost Kingsguard into ovens that charred their flesh, leaving Stannis unharmed.

"It's just you and me," Stannis told his younger brother, extinguishing the flames of his blade and plunging the weapon in the earth. "Let us end this."

"I loved you once," Renly told him as he hesitantly pulled out his own blade. "I never imagined we would be here, doing this."

"Enough words." With that the battle commenced. It was fierce but short. Renly was loved by many, but he had no stomach for battle, and Stannis was a hardened veteran. More than that, even with the flames extinguished, the Ring gave Stannis an almost inhuman speed and strength, each blow landing with the force of a thunder strike. Almost before it began the fight was over, Stannis's sword plunged through his brother's heart. He leaned in close as Renly's lifeblood fled his dying body. "Goodbye brother." He pulled out his blade and stepped back, a triumphant fire in his eyes.

"The false king is dead!" Stannis proclaimed, holding his sword high, his brother's blood still fresh on the blade. His voice carried over the entire battlefield, echoing strangely. "You will all bow to the one true king!" His words had a peculiar quality to them, an almost physical force, a true effort of will required to resist his command. After a moment of silence many of Renly's soldiers fell to their knees, and those that did not, fled. Stannis's men did not give chase, as they were as startled by the turn of events as everyone else. Stannis had taken on a vastly superior force and made them all either bow or flee. It was impossible. But all who looked could see the Ring, burning brightly on his finger through the night.

. . . . .

 _Fire._ She remembered fire. Fire and shadow, and a silhouette, a figure of terror and dread. _Stannis._ She remembered a flaming sword, and a push, no, more like a blast, of force sending her flying. An unnatural force, something dark and foul. Then the ground, striking with the force of a hammer on an anvil, and then nothing.

Brienne opened her eyes and looked around to find herself on a stretcher, carried by men wearing the golden rose of Highgarden. Another stretcher was carried nearby, bearing a body with its right side completely covered in blackened, charred skin. She wondered why they had put a corpse on a stretcher, until the body groaned, a gut-wrenchingly painful sound, and shifted slightly. As terrible as the burns were, he was alive. They appeared to be in the middle of an army on the move, soldiers & knights all moving quickly.

She heard voices and turned her head the other direction, to where she saw the regal form of Catelyn Stark, riding alongside Petyr Baelish and Margaery Tyrell. "It was like something out of a nightmare," Lady Catelyn whispered. "A terror from the Seven Hells."

"Stannis, you mean," Brienne interjected, pushing herself off the stretcher to the surprise of her bearers, who nearly tripped over themselves. Her vision went black for a moment and she nearly fell back, but she held herself upright and the sensation passed. "Stannis worked some sort of foul magic. I saw it, there on the battlefield. He wielded shadow and flame, threw me aside with some sort of spell."

"I saw no such spells," Littlefinger remarked. "Just a man with a flaming sword, and Stannis is not the first to have one of those, from what I've been told."

"I know what I saw!" Brienne spat.

"I believe you," Margaery replied soothingly.

"As do I," Lady Catelyn added. "Please, tell me what you saw."

"King Renly," Brienne whispered as she remembered more of what had happened. "What happened to him? Why isn't he here? Why are we on the move?"

Lady Catelyn sighed. "This is not going to be easy for you to hear."

. . . . .

As Brienne and Lady Stark walked off, Margaery heard a ragged gasp come from the stretcher beside them. "Loras!" she exclaimed, dismounting swiftly and standing beside her brother, holding his unburnt hand.

"Where is Stannis?" Loras hissed, his lips barely moving, but his eyes burning with rage. "Where is he?"

"Standing triumphantly over your king's corpse," Lifflefinger replied, Margaery shooting him a baleful glare. "With his bannermen flocking back to him."

"We need to go home," Margaery told her brother, gripping tightly to his hand. "You can rest, and heal."

"I won't run from Stannis!" he spat, trying to push himself out of the stretcher, only to fall backwards immediately, gasping. "I will put a sword through his righteous face!" he wheezed, a fit of coughs seizing him. Margaery, as well as anyone else with eyes, could see that Loras was not putting a sword through anyone's face any time soon. When his breathing was finally under control, tears welled up in his unburnt eye. "He would have been a true king," he whispered. "A good king."

"Tell me, Ser Loras," Littlefinger questioned, "what do you desire most in this world?"

"Revenge!" Loras hissed, wincing at the pain of moving the muscles in his burnt face.

Littlefinger smiled. "I have always found that to be the purest of motivations. But if it is justice you want, be smart about it."

"You can't avenge him from the grave," Margaery agreed. "You can't even stand up, much less walk or fight."

Loras sighed, his eyes closing as unconsciousness claimed him once more.

"He will be alright your Grace," Littlefinger assured her.

"'Your Grace,'" Margaery whispered, still holding onto her brother's hand. "Calling yourself king doesn't make you one, and if Renly wasn't a king, I wasn't a queen."

"Do you want to be a queen?"

"No," Margaery answered, turning back to look Littlefinger in the eye. "I want to be **the** Queen."

. . . . .

Qarth, the Jade Sea

The air was warm and the sun was bright as Xaro Xhoan Daxos led Daenerys Targaryen through the Qarthian market, the bright colors and hum of conversations breathing life into the city. People from all over the world were there, from dark-skinned Summer Islanders to golden-haired merchants from Volantis and even a woman wearing what appeared to be the lacquered mask of a Shadowbinder from Asshai. Dany had not come to Qarth for sightseeing, but within her own mind at least she could not deny the beauty and allure of this city. It was truly unlike anywhere she had ever been before. She glanced over her shoulder at Jorah Mormont, his hand resting on his sword, his face impassive. She wondered if he was just good at hiding his emotions, or if he was truly as unimpressed with their surroundings as they seemed.

She caught something strange in the corner of her eye and turned around, her gaze pulled towards a strange group of individual's gathered at the edge of the market. They were dark-skinned, like the Summer Islanders, but instead of the smiles she saw on many of the Islanders, these men bore either scowls or smiles too cruel to truly be thought of as such. Many of them bore elaborate tattoos or war-paint, scimitars at their sides or in their hands.

"Who are they?" Dany inquired, pointing towards the men. "I can't place them. Are they from somewhere in the Summer Isles?"

Xaro turned to look, and when he saw the men his smile vanished, his face growing serious. "Those are dangerous men Khaleesi," he warned. "It would be best for you to steer clear of them."

"Who are they?" she questioned again, annoyance creeping into her voice.

Xaro sighed. "Those men are Haradrim, from the land of Harad, far to the east of the Shadowlands."

Confusion spread across Dany's face. "East of the Shadowlands? But there isn't anything east of the Shadowlands. There's nothing but sea after that."

"That's what most of the world thinks," Xaro explained. "Qarth is the furthest west the Haradrim are willing to travel. They are a superstitious bunch, and apparently have legends of terrible gods that live in the west in lands men are not permitted to step foot on. The fact that numerous nations exist in the lands west of Qarth does not seem to deter their superstitions."

"But if there is another land out there, why does no one know about it?"

"Many do," he answered. "They simply don't speak much of it. There are few men willing to sail anywhere near the Shadowlands. There is also the fact that the Haradrim are usually involved in less… savory financial endeavors. Piracy, slavery, etc. And of course, most believe Harad to be nothing more than a small island, alone and isolated. Not worth mentioning."

Dang raised an eyebrow. "But you don't share their opinion?"

He crossed his arms behind his back, their path now taking them past the band of Haradrim. "There are stories, if you know where to look. Mostly myths and legends, tales of tall men with cold eyes and colder steel that came from a land far to the east. A land of dragons and giants, with animals that talk and trees that walk."

"And you believe in the tales of walking trees and talking animals?" Dany asked with a laugh.

Xaro chuckled. "Of course not. But if there is any truth to the legends, or to the tales I have been able to pry out of the few Haradrim willing to speak with me on the subject, there is quite a lot more out there than we know. Many times I have thought to try to see this land for myself." He sighed dramatically. "But alas, there is still much to do here in Qarth, and I have never been much of an adventurer. I will have to leave that adventure to another. But come Khaleesi, enough of such matters. There is still much of the city left to show you."

Dany let Xaro lead her away, but not before taking one last look at these "Haradrim". One of the men bore an elaborate tattoo of a flaming eye on his forehead, an image that for some reason sent chills through her body. She turned away quickly, her heart beating faster. She didn't know why, but something about that eye terrified her.

. . . . .

Ruins of Renly Baratheon's Camp, the Stormlands

The smoke still hung in the air, as did the smell of blood, burnt flesh, and emptied bowels. Melisandre strode silently through the remains of Renly Baratheon's camp, watching as the survivors worked to dismantle the tents. Only hours ago, many of these men had faced each other on the field of battle, dying at one another's hands. But now they stood together, serving together under one king. It would have been touching, if not for the fact that she knew that all this bloodshed could have easily been prevented with the death of a single man. Renly Baratheon's death, done from the shadows and by a Shadow, would have sent his bannermen flocking to Stannis. Instead, the power of the Ring had bought Renly's death and his bannermen's allegiance only after the deaths of hundreds, possibly thousands.

But Renly's death was not the only one that had the potential to save the lives of countless others. She doubted anyone would miss this one. She found her way to the tent the soldiers had told her the Mouth had claimed after the battle. She had told her Shadow to be patient and wait until after the battle was over to do its work, when the foul messenger was alone. Now she had come to see her child's handiwork. She pulled back the flap of the tent and found only darkness. Unnatural darkness. With the sun outside, this deep of darkness should not have been possible.

A brazier ignited in the center of the tent, though it did little to dispel the darkness from the room. If anything, it seemed to enhance it, the fire's light giving new life to the dark. Within the firelight she saw the Mouth of Sauron, his gauntleted hand somehow grasping the neck of the Shadow she had sent to kill him.

"Did you really believe this weak creature could slay me?" the Mouth hissed, barring his yellowed teeth, his cracked and blackened lips peeling back sickeningly. "My lord Sauron has taught me darker magics than any you know to conjure." He hissed out a series of words in a foul language and the Shadow cried out pitifully before dissipating into nothing, joining the oppressive darkness of the room. Melisandre fell to her knees as she felt her child's death, his purpose left unfulfilled. The Mouth regarded her for a moment, a sickening smile on his face.

"We serve the same master," he told her, "though you do not yet realize it. Do you know who your Lord of Light truly is? This god that wields the powers of Shadow and Flame? My master, the Dark Lord Sauron, once taught men of a great empire to worship the dark god Morgoth. This empire had many colonies in your Essos. They spread the worship of the Dark God, though the names and traditions changed over time…" He glanced at the darkness around them. "The servants of Morgoth have always been skilled in the arts of sorcery and shadowbinding."

"A lie!" Melisandre accused. "You know nothing of the Lord of Light! He is the one true god!"

"Believe as you wish," he replied. "But know that I am not so easily killed. And the next time, I will not be so forgiving." The darkness suddenly shifted, and before she could react the flame was snuffed out and the darkness surrounded her, clawing at her, tearing at her very soul. Then, as suddenly as it came it was gone, and she was alone in the tent, the Mouth of Sauron nowhere to be seen.

 **Author's Note:** I hope you have all enjoyed the story so far! I've really enjoyed writing this story so far and I am excited to continue telling the story of this combined universe. By this point you've gotten a pretty decent idea of what sort of a story this is. So my question to you is this: what do you think will happen next? Or anytime in the future really. What sort of changes to the timeline do you think might occur? What do you want to happen? And lastly, please let me know what you think of the story so far. I love getting your feedback.


	7. Chapter 5

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 5

Third Age 2952/ 299 After Conquest

King's Landing, the Crownlands

Gandalf sat alone in his chambers, blowing smoke out the window into the night air. He wished that Bilbo was there with him, blowing smoke rings and sending them chasing after each other out into the sky. He missed that Hobbit, his good heart and kind spirit, especially after spending so much time in King's Landing. He loved the way that Hobbits lived, their love of growing things and simple pleasures. No plots, no betrayals, no friends killed for speaking the truth. He knew there was good in the people of Westeros, but sometimes it was difficult to see it, especially when men like Ned Stark and Jon Arryn were dead while cruel idiots like Joffrey lived on.

 _There has to be something I can do here, something to-_ the thought was cut off as Gandalf sensed something, a dark, foul presence. He leapt out of his chair and spun around, but there was nothing. Northing there in the room with him at least. He reached out with his mind, and realized the presence, while it had felt so close, was far away still. Down south, in the Stormlands. Something evil had come to Westeros, something foul. Something had tipped the scales to the side of darkness.

"This does not bode well," he muttered, picking his pipe back up from where he dropped it. "Not well at all."

. . . . .

Alone in his study within the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion worked to find a way to use all the Wyldfire that his sister had ordered made in a way that **didn't** burn half the city to the ground. It wasn't an easy task. Bronn was right about the catapults. Flinging barrels of Wyldfire out of the city might kill a decent amount of Stannis's troops, but the slightest misstep would set the city alight.

He heard knocking at the door and looked up to see Gandalf shuffle into the room, leaning on that gnarled staff of his. Once the door closed behind him the shuffling stopped and the old man stood up straighter, the staff little more than a courtesy as he strode confidently across the room. As far as Tyrion could tell, Gandalf was one of the most honest men currently in King's Landing, but that wasn't saying much. They were all liars there. Gandalf might not lie with words, but he was as skilled at deception as any of them, of that Tyrion was certain.

"Exactly how old are you?" Tyrion asked, closing the book on battle tactics he had been reading. "According to Varys, you were old when Pycelle was a young man, and **he's** as old as dirt. You'd have to be over a hundred."

"Well over," Gandalf replied cryptically, chuckling as he sat down in the seat before Tyrion's desk. "So, how goes your efforts with the city's supply of Wyldfire?"

For a moment Tyrion was so shocked he could say nothing. Cersei had worked hard to keep the Wyldfire secret, and Tyrion had worked even harder to make sure no one knew that he had co-opted the pyromancers' efforts. So how did Gandalf know about it?

"Don't look so surprised," Gandalf laughed. "I'm not so blind as most in the Small Council would believe." Tyrion made a mental note to not underestimate Gandalf. "Please, there is no need for secrets between us. We are allies here. Neither of us wants to see this city destroyed, which is exactly what will happen if Stannis has his way."

Tyrion sensed something in the words beyond just what the old man had said. "Do you know something about Stannis that I don't?"

"Stannis is not what he once was," Gandalf began. "When I knew him, he was harsh, but he was a man of honor. But he has changed. A darkness has come to Westeros, and Stannis brings it with him. When he comes to King's Landing, he will come not simply as a conqueror, but as a destroyer. Countless innocents will die."

"So you've heard the reports then," Tyrion remarked, picking a raven scroll from among the several scattered across his desk. "The Battle of Baratheon, they're calling it. Renly with a hundred thousand soldiers and Stannis with less than two thousand, and Stannis proceeds to kill Renly and either scatter or claim Renly's army for his own." Tyrion paused, pursing his lips. "I'll admit, I don't think I've ever heard of a victory quite like this one, but the descriptions of Stannis attacking 'in a storm of shadow and flame' seem a bit hyperbolic to me."

Gandalf's brows furrowed, his face deathly serious. "I wish they were."

. . . . .

Gandalf shuffled from the Tower of the Hand a couple hours later, a plan beginning to come together. He had never liked Wyldfire. The substance could do nothing but destroy and kill. Unfortunately, Gandalf had found death was too often necessary to prevent more death. Not long after leaving the Tower he was joined by another, his steps quiet, his hands clasped in front of him, hidden in his sleeves.

"You and the Lord Hand seem to be very friendly with one another," Varys stated, his face as impassive as ever.

Gandalf raised one bushy eyebrow. "Is that what your Little Birds have told you?"

"I get many different kinds of whispers," Varys replied. "Though what I've heard about you is truly fascinating."

"Oh?"

"It's fascinating in that there is so little. Oh, I've heard plenty about your time with Jon Arryn and the various departed kings, but I already knew most of that. You are singularly unique in that you don't seem to have any beginning. You just showed up one day and started advising Aegon V. Before that day, nothing. You didn't exist. I have many talents, but nonexistence is not one of them."

"And you want me to explain my origins to you?" Gandalf inquired. The two of them spoke quietly, their tones casual. They rarely looked at one another as they spoke, moving in a way that was neither conspiratorial or rushed. A passerby could be forgiven for mistaking them for strangers, simply passing the time as they shared a path for a few brief minutes.

"On the contrary," Varys objected, "that would ruin the mystery. But you and I share a connection to this kingdom's past in a way the others on the Small Council do not, and I like to think that we share a similar vision for the future of the Realm."

"Indeed? Please, tell me more…"

. . . . .

Third Age 2919/ 266 After Conquest

The Eyrie, the Vale

 _The future of the Realm._ The topic had been on Gandalf's mind quite frequently of late. Westeros was a land defined by war. When the Realm had strong leaders, there was war. When the Realm had kind leaders, there was war. Aerys's rule had thus far been a stable one, but Gandalf knew that could not last. If the years of advising his father were any indication, war was never far, regardless of how good the king was.

The young Prince Rhaegar was already showing promise, with a kind heart and a good head on his shoulders. Aerys allowed Gandalf to help tutor the child and he worked hard to ensure those traits grew along with the Prince. But more and more Gandalf realized that a good king was not enough to keep the Seven Kingdoms at peace. He needed allies with equally kind hearts and good heads. That was why he was here in the Vale.

"Gandalf!" Jon Arryn exclaimed when he saw him, his azure eyes bright as he embraced the old man tightly. "It's been years! What brings you to the Vale, you old prune?"

Gandalf laughed, smiling broadly at his friend's affectionate jibes. Jon Arryn was one of the best men in Westeros, a particularly rare find in that he was already that way long before Gandalf had ever met him. "I missed your honesty, old friend."

"Got tired of all the schemers in the capital, did you?"

Gandalf shook his head ruefully. "Pray that you never have to deal with 'Grand Maester' Pycelle's pomposity."

Jon shivered. "Oh, gods no. Please, come with me. I've got a pair of lads I want to introduce to you." He waved Gandalf over as he strode out of the room, the two of them moving into a chamber where two young boys were sparring with wooden swords. They both had thick mops of brown hair, though one was decently larger than the other and looked like he still had a lot of growing left to go. "The larger lad is Robert Baratheon," Jon told him, pointing. "The smaller one is Eddard Stark. Their families sent them to me for fostering. They are both good lads, though Robert is a bit overeager and Eddard can be quiet."

 _Yes, they will work well,_ Gandalf thought to himself. He could see a lot of potential in both of them. He would return to the Vale often in the following years, aiding in the teaching of the young lords. He had hope that with the two of them supporting young Rhaegar, the future was in good hands.

. . . . .

Third Age 2952/ 299 After Conquest

A tavern in the Riverlands

Athelon lounged in a corner booth at the back of the tavern, his legs up on the table in front of him. He stayed away from the other patrons and they kept clear of him. He had a bottle of wine on the table, but one taste made him wish longingly for a good bottle of real Gondorian wine. He didn't know the name of the tavern, nor did he particularly care. It was a lot like the others, poorly maintained and smelling little better than an orc pit.

He was starting to learn a little about this strange land, enough to know that he was somewhere in the Riverlands, and that the ones with the fish sigil were apparently the lords were the lords of this land. They seemed to be somewhat friendly with the wolves, who very much did not like the lions. That was about as much as he cared to know.

He took another swing of the terrible wine, wondering how he had ended up in this place, so far away from all that he held dear. "No, I know how I ended up here," he muttered to himself. "I just don't like it."

. . . . .

Third Age 2951/ 298 After Conquest

Umbar, Harad

The desert sun bore down on Athelon, a hot wind throwing sand into his eyes. He grunted and covered his eyes with his hand, inwardly cursing sand and everything connected to it. No matter how he covered up, the sand always found a way into every nook and cranny, itching and scratching, impossible to eliminate. He looked up at the walls of the city before him, the first and only bastion of civilization he had seen on his trek south. Umbar, the City of the Corsairs. Home to the worst that the race of Men had to offer. He should fit in just fine.

. . . . .

Athelon stepped out of the alleyway, wiping the blood from his dagger on the wall of the building next to him. It was the third time someone had tried to kill him in as many days, and Athelon doubted the attempts were going to let up any time soon. Even wrapped in rags and darkened by the sun as he was, the people of Umbar could apparently spot a "Tark" a mile away. The fact that the people of these lands had adopted the orc word used to describe his people was not lost on him.

"You're going west?" Athelon overheard someone say. He dropped into the shadow of the building, moving silently towards the sounds of conversation.

"Asshai always needs more citizens," another laughed. "And they pay good money for them."

"You aren't afraid of the Ban?" By this point Athelon could see them, a pair of dark-skinned men sitting at a market stall. The one behind the stall was large and round, the other shorter and thinner, but well-muscled, a cruel-looking scimitar at his side.

"I'm not going all the way to Qarth or beyond," the short one laughed. "Just to Asshai. There is plenty of wealth to be found there without going to the truly western lands."

 _Qarth? Asshai?_ None of these names were familiar to Athelon. If they hadn't said otherwise he might have assumed them to be places to the south or east, elsewhere in Harad or even out to Rhun or Khand, but these two said these places were **west**. There weren't supposed to be any lands west of Middle-Earth, not since Numenor sank into the sea and the Undying Lands were removed from the circle of the world.

But apparently that wasn't the case. Whatever Qarth or Asshai were, they were apparently only the beginning of these western lands. He slunk back into the shadows, taking another back alley toward the harbor. If he was going to run, he might as well run as far as possible. _I wonder just how far west west goes._

. . . . .

Third Age 2952/ 299 After Conquest

King's Landing, the Crownlands

Gandalf walked alone through the streets of King's Landing, taking in the reality of the city. The reality wasn't good. The people were hungry, scared, and impoverished. More than that, they were angry. Gandalf wanted to relieve each and every one of them of their ills, but there was only so much anyone, even a wizard, could do.

He shuffled past old beggars who stretched their desiccated arms out in search of spare coins and small urchin children huddling together for protection. Most ignored him, as did almost everyone else he passed. An old man in grey, leaning on a gnarled staff for support, wasn't a particularly memorable figure. He probably could have hidden himself among the beggars, if he so wished. Instead he walked and he watched, taking in everything. One thing that those born in keeps and castles rarely understood, even those with good hearts, was that you could never truly know how to help people unless you walked among them yourself.

Gandalf moved away from the main thoroughfare and into a back alley, smiling at a pair of eyes that watched him from the shadows. A small child, one of Varys's Little Birds most likely. He kept walking, letting the alley carry him through the veins of the city. The only warning he got was the brief glint of sunlight off the blade.

Gandalf leapt out of the way, much faster than a man as old as he appeared should move, still only barely missing the dagger intended for his heart. The dark-clothed cutthroat recovered quickly from his surprise, stabbing out at Gandalf once more. But this time the wizard was prepared, swinging his staff into the cutthroat's fingers, eliciting a cry of pain as the dagger flew from his grip. The man's unshaven face turned to look at Gandalf in shock, just in time for the back end of the staff to swing up and strike him directly in the center of his forehead. He collapsed against the alley wall, staring dumbly at Gandalf's long beard.

"And who sent you, hm?" Gandalf inquired, kneeling to look the downed cutthroat in the eyes. "Hm… Of course," he mused after a moment, seeing beyond the man's eyes to something deeper. "When you recover your senses, return to Cersei and tell her that if she truly wants to kill me, she will have to try quite a bit harder than that." With that Gandalf laughed heartily and stood back up, shuffling back on his way, leaving a very confused cutthroat behind.


	8. Chapter 6

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 6

Third Age 2952/ 299 After Conquest

King's Landing, the Crownlands

"You look well suited for battle, my lord," Varys stated, watching as Podrick fastened Tyrion's armor. The lights were dim, an aura of expectation in the air, as if the entire city were holding its breath.

"Well, I'm not," Tyrion replied tersely, not meeting Varys's eyes. He didn't know what he was doing here. The only battle he'd ever been in, he was knocked unconscious within the first minute. Now here he was, leading the defense of the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. War was on their doorstep, and no one knew if they were going to survive the night, least of all Tyrion.

"For all our sakes I hope you are wrong," Varys countered, his words chilling Tyrion to the bone. Tyrion looked up, and for the first time he could recall he saw a hint of real emotion on the eunuch's face: fear. Just a hint, but it was enough. "My Little Birds tell me that Stannis Baratheon has taken up with a Red Priestess from Asshai and wears a ring given to him by a sorcerer, said to have the power to dominate the wills of men."

Tyrion hid his discomfort, keeping his face neutral as he watched Pod work. "What of it?"

Varys raised his hairless brows slightly. "You don't believe in the Old Powers, my lord?"

"Blood spells, curses, magic rings, what do you think?" Tyrion could understand fearing for their lives. The city **was** about to be under siege by a very large army of men who hated them. But sorcery? First Gandalf, now Varys. Was Tyrion the only one in this city who still had their head on straight?

"I think you believe in what you see," Varys responded. "And in what those you trust have seen." He made a half-hearted attempt at a chuckle. "You probably don't entirely trust me."

"Don't take it personally," Tyrion told him, "I don't entirely trust myself."

"Yet I have seen things," Varys stated, his voice deathly quiet, his eyes somewhere distant. "And heard things. Things you have not. Things I wish **I** had not." He paused, the silence thick in the air. "I don't believe I ever told you how I was cut."

Podrick glanced up at this, but he looked back down quickly.

"No, I don't believe you have," Tyrion answered, curious.

Varys took a deep breath. "One day, I will." He continued, his voice growing resolute. "The Dark Arts have provided Lord Stannis with his armies, and paved his path to our door. For a man in service to such powers to sit on the Iron Throne… I can think of nothing worse."

"It is worse than you know," Gandalf interjected as he strode through the doorway, his voice strong, his back straight. This was not a night for deceptions. "Stannis has become a servant of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor."

"Is that supposed to mean something to us?" Tyrion questioned, exasperated.

"Sauron is a being from the Elder Days, a spirit of wrath who takes physical form to walk among Men and bend them to his will. He is skilled in all manner of craft and sorcery, with power beyond anything you can imagine." Seeing the look of disbelief on Tyrion's face, Gandalf sighed, leaning against his staff for support. "You do not believe me. I understand. It is not easy to believe what you have not seen. But know this: Darkness is coming to King's Landing, and Stannis bears it on his finger. Rings of Power are not to be trifled with. I will do what I can, but it is never wise to underestimate the devilry of Sauron. If we survive the night, you will see for yourself the true powers that govern this world."

"If what you say is true," Varys inquired, his solemnity making Tyrion pause, "then what hope is there for us?"

"We must hope in the strength of the weak," Gandalf answered. "And in the folly of those who believe themselves to be strong."

For a long moment, the room was silent. "Well then," Tyrion finally stated, walking over to the table and pouring himself a glass of wine. "I think we're going to need more wine."

. . . . .

The Battle of Blackwater Bay

Fires flickered in the dark night air, failing to drive away the sense of impending doom. Tyrion paced along the length of the wall, his new axe in his hand and Podrick behind him. He had never before felt as small as he did in that moment, which was saying something. Weeks of planning and preparation had led to this night, yet he didn't feel prepared in the least.

"Where is that old wizard?" he muttered, glancing back into the dimly lit city. He had not seen Gandalf since their conversation with Varys. He hadn't expected the Spider to be on the walls during the siege, but Gandalf had claimed that he would help. _Not that he could really do much. Whatever he says about ancient powers, he's still an old man. His heart would probably give out if he came within a hundred feet of a battle._ He shook his head, looking out into the bay below. _I just hope this mad plan of ours works._

. . . . .

It was horrifying. Demonic emerald fire consumed the fleet, the pained and panicked screams of those aboard carrying through the night. Tyrion was sickened to realize that all that destruction, all that death, was because of him. So many lives extinguished in a single moment, so many more left to die in blazing agony. Even from so far away, he could still feel the heat of the flames. Tyrion looked back and was even more sickened as he saw the cruel ecstasy on the faces of both the Pyromancer and Joffrey. A monster may have been attacking the city, but there were plenty of monsters already within her walls.

. . . . .

The dead were already numberless, but the living just kept coming. Flaming arrows rained from the sky, striking men dead where they stood, but more came. The Mud Gate burst open, and from it swarmed Lannister soldiers, led by the massive form of the Hound. The Hound shouted obscenities as he charged, threatening to rape the corpse of any man to die with a clean sword. He carved a path through the Baratheon forces, overpowering any that stood in his way. Men died on all sides, Lannister and Baratheon alike, and blood stained everything. Soon there were few men, alive or dead, that had to worry about the Hound's threats.

Then something changed. Fire lit up the night, and the Hound turned to see a nightmare, a demon of shadow and flame that only bore a passing resemblance to a man. Stannis Baratheon strode forward, his flaming sword casting sinister shadows across his body that twisted and changed like living things. Sandor Clegane's mind was sent back years, and he felt the pain of the flesh of his face melting all over again. He couldn't stand before that horror. So he ran. The Hound turned around and fled back through the gate, the rest of the Lannister soldiers following, all fleeing before the demon that was Stannis Baratheon.

. . . . .

"They flee before your power," the Mouth of Sauron hissed, grinning as he watched the last Lannister soldier flee through the city gates. "They cannot stand before you. And still they know nothing. Show them your true power, my king."

Melisandre stood back and watched silently as Stannis strode forward, arrows bouncing off his armor harmlessly. He was terrible, and he was glorious. Seeing him them, she could almost believe that the Ring **was** a gift from the Lord of Light. She could not imagine the Warrior of Light looking any mightier than Stannis did in that moment. He was a god among men. And he terrified her.

"Stand aside," Stannis commanded, his soldiers parting before him. Striding up to the gate, Stannis raised his hand. The Ring glowed with a sinister radiance, eagerly devouring all other lights. Stannis rested his hand on the door, his fingers closing into a fist. He opened his mouth, and the word that came out was in a language so foul that even that single word made Melisandre feel ill. **"Lagub!"** Stannis commanded, and with a resounding _CRACK_ the gates shattered, splinters flying back into the men behind, screams of pain rising from behind the walls.

"Too me!" Stannis commanded, raising his flaming sword high. "We take this city! The Iron Throne is mine!" His soldiers took up the cry, and as one they swarmed through the gates, a tide of fire and death. And Melisandre knew that she could do nothing but watch.

. . . . .

Tyrion could only gape from atop the walls as the Mud Gate simply shattered, as if it had been made of glass. The Hound was already gone, having made the only logical choice and fled from Stannis as soon as he had the chance. When Lancel Lannister came to drag off Joffrey, Tyrion couldn't find the words to keep him there. _If you won't defend your city, why should they? Get down there and lead your people against the invaders that want to kill them!_ He thought the words, but he couldn't make himself speak them. He could only watch as the king ran and his soldiers looked as if they were thinking seriously of doing the same.

The Baratheon troops stormed through the shattered gates, Stannis and his flaming sword at their head. Lannister soldiers were slaughtered, and Tyrion was frozen, unable to do anything. He had not believed Gandalf and Varys when they spoke of sorcery, but he could deny it no longer. There was also nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing any of them could do.

Then a new light sprung to life, a bright white light that cast away terror and replaced it with hope. Turning around, Tyrion could not believe his eyes as he saw Gandalf standing amid the light. No, he wasn't simply in the light. He was the source of it. A gem at the top of his staff glowed blindingly white, and the old man no longer appeared old and frail, but ancient and mighty, a god in the form of a man.

"When I called him a wizard, I wasn't being serious," he muttered. "I was just making a clever joke!" But this was no joke. Tyrion watched as the two lights pushed at one another, one dark and foul, the other bright and pure. Tyrion hadn't ever taken much stock in the old tales, in which good always triumphed over evil. That just wasn't the way of the world. But for all their sakes, he desperately hoped that was the case this time.

. . . . .

Gandalf stood in the center of the street, his staff held aloft before him. "You cannot pass!" he declared, his voice echoing through the city. "The evil you bear does not belong in this place. Cast it aside or be gone!"

"And who are you," Stannis questioned, "to command the rightful King of Westeros and the Warrior of Light?"

"You are no Warrior of Light," Gandalf declared. "You are a servant of darkness. And **you**!" He turned suddenly towards the Mouth of Sauron, the light from his staff flaring brighter. "Servant of Shadow, Messenger of Mordor. You should never have come to these shores! Faithless I name you! Faithless and Accursed! Go crawling back to your master, or I will strike you down!"

For a moment they stood there, gazes locked in a silent contest of wills. Then the Mouth turned and fled, running out the gates and away from the city. Stannis watched, his eyes filled with fire and rage. "No matter," he spat. "I do not need him any more." He turned back to Gandalf and held out his flaming sword, the air around him darkening. "I will give you this one chance. Bend the knee and swear fealty to me, or I will destroy you."

"I am a servant of the Secret Fire," Gandalf answered. "The dark fire will not avail you. I will not bow to evil, not this day or any other."

"So be it."

. . . . .

A loud cough broke Tyrion from his trance, allowing him to peel his eyes away from the clash of the two powers. Looking around, he realized that by stopping Stannis, Gandalf had also halted the press of the Baratheon troops and freed the Lannister forces from the unnatural terror that Stannis carried with him. They were scattered and disoriented, but they were there. If they were going to have any chance of pushing back Stannis's armies, this was it.

It didn't take long for him to find where most of their soldiers had gathered. They hadn't been pushed back far, and Lannister red was hard to miss. Many of them were already wounded, and all of them looked lost and confused.

"I will lead the attack!" he declared. He got no response, the men muttering to one another, with only a couple sending glances back his way. "Men, form up!" Still no response. "Men! Men!" A couple more glances, but nothing more. Tyrion sighed, gathering his strength. The crazy old wizard might have been holding Stannis himself at bay, but Stannis's armies were still a very real threat, and they were now inside the city.

"They say I am half a man!" Tyrion called out. "But what does that make the lot of you?"

"The only way out is through the gates!" one of the soldiers shouted back. "And they've broken through!"

"There's another way out," Tyrion replied, quieter now that he had their attention. "I'm going to show you. We're going to come behind them and trap them between our blades and that crazy wizard!" They glanced towards the distant light show, and hope began to burn once again in some of their eyes. "Don't fight for your king, and don't fight for his kingdoms! Don't fight for honor, don't fight for glory, don't fight for riches because you won't get any." There were some chuckles at that. "This is your city Stannis means to sack! If we don't stop him now, it will be your houses he burns, your gold he steals, your women he will rape! Those are brave men charging through our gates. Let's go kill them!" The men cheered him then, raising their blades into the air triumphantly, and as one they followed Tyrion down into the secret tunnels.

. . . . .

Melisandre could not believe her eyes. She had served the Lord of Light for many years. She had wielded many magics in His service and witnessed many more magics still. But never had she beheld such a display of power than the two forces arrayed before her. On one side, cloaked in shadow and wreathed in flame, Stannis Baratheon stood like a herald of destruction, a demon in the shape of a man. On the other side, engulfed in brilliant white light, stood an old man, whose grey robes and pointed hat belied the immense power that emanated from his being. His eyes were ancient, filled with memory of times older than the world itself. Brilliant white flames encircled him, and for a moment Melisandre wondered if the Lord of Light himself had come down among them to punish them for their sins.

But no, that was not his way. The Lord worked his will through mortals, he did not come down among them himself. But while this stranger was not the Lord of Light Himself, she could not deny that he was a servant of light. Just being near his brilliant white flames filled her with peace. She moved out of sight, knowing that whatever the outcome of this battle, it would be the Lord's will.

Stannis charged forward, turning invisible mid-step, vanishing into the shadows. However, the old man's eyes seemed to follow him regardless, seeing into a world that Melisandre could not. He struck out with his staff and there was a flash like lightning, followed by a crack of thunder and Stannis reappeared, crashing backwards through the wall of a nearby building. He leapt to his feet and reignited his blade, flames leaping out as he struck. The old man met Stannis's blade with one of his own, one hand still bearing his glowing staff as the other wielded the long silvery blade, defending skillfully against Stannis's sweeping blows.

"Do you not remember my face?" the old man questioned as their blades met once more, sparks leaping into the night. "I was a friend and mentor to your brother Robert!"

"And now you fight for my enemies!" Stannis spat back. "There's loyalty for you!"

"I fight only against the Shadow that has you in its grip!" Gandalf declared. "Cast off the chains that bind you! Release yourself from this evil! Cast aside the Ring!"

For a moment Gandalf's words seemed to be getting through to Stannis, his assault wavering. But at the mention of the Ring he became enraged, his eyes filled with untamed avarice. "It's mine!" he hissed. "It was given to me! The Ring is mine, and so is the Iron Throne!" He renewed his assault, hacking relentlessly at the old man, flame and shadow moving with him and striking out at the wizard's light, the clashing Powers lighting the night.

Finally, with a mighty cry the old man released a blast of force that sent the would-be king flying. He crashed to the ground, his blade skidding against the stone as it slipped from his grip. He tried to move up, but a powerful force held him down, forcing him to the earth. The grey wizard strode forward, his staff extended before him. Stannis tried to rise once more, and the old man pushed the staff forward, slamming him down again. For a moment the two locked eyes, engaged in a battle of wills far deadlier than flames or force. Finally, Stannis went limp, his will failing against that of the ancient wizard. The wizard's silvery blade flashed out, swiftly removing the finger which bore the Ring, as well as the rest of the fingers of that hand.

And with that it was over. The Ring's light faded, and Stannis was once more a mortal man. The wizard's light faded as well, leaving a frail old man, robed in grey and leaning on a gnarled staff for support. The light and shadow, the fire and power, which had been so real a moment before, now felt like a dream.

But it was no dream, and neither were the sounds she heard outside. The tide had turned against Stannis and his armies, which meant the time had come for her to disappear. She gave one last look as she left and found the old man's eyes staring directly at her. Looking in those eyes, she felt as if he had looked into her very soul, and he found her wanting. With that chilling thought she fled, leaving the sounds of battle behind as Tywin Lannister's reinforcements arrived and the battle came to its bloody end.

. . . . .

"So, they were telling the truth," Tywin muttered as his horse stamped through the charred and broken remains of the street. "You have returned." He didn't deign to dismount, staring down at the old man from his saddle.

Gandalf looked up from his perch on the side of the road and lowered his pipe, a puff of smoke escaping his lips. "Why yes, I do believe I have. And none too soon, I should think. I dread to think of what would have happened had I not been here."

"Likely something very similar to what did happen," Tywin replied dryly. He nodded toward Stannis's body, slumped on the ground and missing the fingers on his ring hand. "Is he dead?"

"Oh, I think not," Gandalf mumbled, taking another breath from his pipe. "Simply unconscious. He lost a great deal of blood, but he will be fine."

"Good. A formal execution should be a suitable punishment. If he-" Tywin paused, something catching his eye. He left the saddle, kneeling and picking up one of Stannis's removed fingers, firelight glinting off a crimson gemstone set in gold. "And what is this then?"

"An object of great and terrible evil," Gandalf replied solemnly, his eyes wary. "We have had our differences in the past, it is true. But listen to me when I tell you that Ring is not to be worn, not by anyone. If possible, it should be destroyed, if not then it should be buried deep within the earth, where no Man can claim it."

"Foolishness," Tywin muttered, pulling the Ring from Stannis's finger. "It's a piece of jewelry, not a weapon. I heard enough of your superstitions back when the Mad King still reigned, I don't need to hear them now." Despite his apparent lack of concern either way, Tywin took the Ring, placing it in one of his saddlebags and latching the bag tight.

Tywin turned back to Gandalf, his eyes hard. "I've heard how my son has let you prance around the Small Council as if you owned it. Well, not anymore. My son will no longer be Hand of the King, and the privileges he has afforded you will be removed." An annoyed look crossed his face. "While I cannot remove you from the Small Council, I can take away any power you might have beyond that."

"You haven't changed at all," Gandalf huffed, pulling himself to his feet. "I suppose it was too much to hope that your son had gained some of his good sense from you."

Tywin looked at the wizard one last time, his face impassive. "Goodbye Gandalf." With that he mounted his horse once more and rode off.

. . . . .

Tyrion recognized the sound of a wooden staff clicking against the ground, followed by the rustling of long robes. "I heard you defeated Stannis," Tyrion muttered, pushing himself up in his bed to look Gandalf in the face as the old man settled into the chair beside the bed. "Though my father seems very determined to keep all mention of magic duels out of the official record."

"I would be surprised if he didn't," Gandalf replied with a chuckle. "You could have a thousand soldiers tell Tywin Lannister that they saw a wizard and he wouldn't believe them. Besides, he was never very fond of me. Its bad enough that he must admit that I defeated Stannis in the first place, and I'm fairly certain that he only kept that part of the story to shame Stannis. I'd imagine being defeated in battle by an old man isn't the most inspiring story."

"So, what brings you to the place of my exile?" Tyrion inquired, wincing as the movement stretched his wound.

"Your father has ensured that I will have no more power in the Small Council from now on," Gandalf told him.

"I've heard my father has been getting rid of all my allies."

"So it is," Gandalf agreed with a nod. "I can do no more here. I can be of no aid where my counsel is not wanted. The time has come for me to leave King's Landing."

"I'll miss your ability to shut up members of my immediate family," Tyrion responded, smiling slightly.

For a moment Gandalf said nothing, just looking down at the smaller man solemnly. "You are a good man, Tyrion Lannister."

"No, I'm not," Tyrion argued, his voice quiet. "It's like you said. Joffrey killed the last good man we had."

Gandalf smiled, rising from his seat. "I have been known to be wrong, from time to time." He strode out of the room, taking one last look inside as he opened the door. "I believe there might be one or two left."

. . . . .

The click of wood against stone caught Sansa by surprise, the girl spinning around to face the source of the noise. But once she saw the source, she let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, its only you," she laughed. "You startled me."

"I apologize, my lady," Gandalf replied. "I did not mean to frighten you."

"It's alright," Sansa assured him. She paused, a thought coming to her mind. "I haven't had an opportunity to thank you for your help that day. You were very kind to me, and I don't think I have been gracious about it."

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Gandalf stated. "Much has weighed on your mind. I did not come here in search of an apology, or of thanks."

Sansa heard the unspoken message in his words. "Why did you come here then?"

"I came hoping I could aid you once more," he answered. "I am leaving the city. There is nothing more I can do here, so I will go where I can be of some service to this realm. I will be riding for your brother's camp with all haste. I can take you with me, if you so wish. I could take you home to your family."

"King's Landing is my home now," Sansa answered almost automatically.

Gandalf's eyes were kind, yet a deep sorrow could be seen within them. "Are you certain? It would be no trouble at all, I assure you. I am leaving already, and I do not intend to return. You would be safe with me."

There was a struggle within her eyes, but Sansa's shoulders slumped slightly as her fear won the battle. "I- I am sure, Lord Gandalf. I'm staying."

"I am no lord," Gandalf told her. "And if it is truly your wish, I will leave you here. But please know that I am ever your friend and ally, just as I was your father's."

"Thank you."

Gandalf sighed. "Goodbye, my dear." With that he turned around, striding out to the gates of the Red Keep before vanishing from the city without a trace.

. . . . .

The House of the Undying, Qarth

Dany turned her back on her moon and stars with tears in her eyes, pushing open the flap of the dream-tent and stepped outside. Immediately she choked on some foul vapor, black smoke filling her lungs. She fell to the blackened earth beneath her, sharp rocks cutting into her hands and knees. She hacked and coughed, trying to get a breath of fresh air, but it was no use. There was no fresh air, only vapor and smoke and the smell of dead things.

She managed enough strength to look up and found herself at the base of a great fortress, mightier than any she had ever seen and built entirely from black metal. Great spikes adorned the walls of the fortress, and at the center stood a tower stretching high into the blackened heavens. At the very top of that tower was an eye, a terrible, dreadful eye. It stared down at her with a baleful gaze, lidless and wreathed in flame. As she stared into that fiery gaze, she felt an unnatural terror grip her, beating down at her mind like a hammer against rotten wood.

 ** _I see you…_** The dread voice filled her mind, hissing into the very depths of her being. This was a power beyond her, ancient and terrible. An evil older than the earth itself, fueled by the desire to bring all peoples of the world beneath its heel. She could not stand against it, she could not run. She could only bow before it and pray that it did not consume her.

 **"** **No!"** she cried, forcing away the force pushing down on her will. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House of Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, and I bow to no one!" She took a step forward and as suddenly as it came the vision passed, and she found herself entering a stone chamber, her three infant dragons standing on a pedestal. She did not know what trick the Warlocks had just used against her or what further tricks they had in store, but no sorcery was going to keep her away from her children.


	9. Chapter 7

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 7

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

Robb Stark's Camp, the Riverlands

The sun was just beginning to rise over the trees, the dim rays of morning light bringing warmth to the waking camp. The sentries eyes were red from lack of sleep, their minds thinking of their cots while they leaned on their spears. As they stated out into the woods, an old man in a grey cloak wandered up the road, bowed over and leaning on a wooden staff. He had a strange blue pointed hat on his head, and didn't look at the sentries as he walked forward.

"Who goes there?" the foremost sentry questioned, leveling a spear at the old man. "What is your business here?"

The old man looked up at him from beneath the shadow of his pointed hat, leveling an impressive pair of eyebrows at the the young lad. "I am Gandalf, and I have urgent business with your king." He stepped forward, and the guard shifted his grip on his spear, keeping the weapon pointed at the wizard.

"What business?" the sentry questioned, working hard to look stern.

Gandalf planted his staff, leaning against it and looking the boy over with a quizzical eye. "Are you so afraid of an old man, that you would hold him at spear point?" Gandalf inquired, raising an eyebrow. "Am I such a threat to you?"

"Well, um…" the guard twitched, his eyes scanning Gandalf. Glamdring was hidden among the folds of his cloak, so all the young man could see was an old man leaning on a staff, dressed in ragged robes and a strange hat. "No, I suppose you don't look particularly dangerous." He pulled the spear back, shifting uncertainly.

"Good," Gandalf huffed. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I need to speak to the King in the North. You may accompany me if you wish, but I am going, with or without you."

The sentry glanced at the other guards, who seemed to be quite amused with the whole situation. One of them laughed, holding up his hands defensively. "This one is all you Rann."

Rann sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Alright old man," he muttered, stepping aside. "Let's take you to see the King."

"Very gracious of you," Gandalf stated, his beard hiding his smirk. "Hurry on now, we don't want to keep him waiting." Gandalf strode forward, and to Rann's surprise he had to pick up his pace drastically in order to keep up with the old man. As they walked, Gandalf examined the soldiers they passed. They seemed healthy, but they were restless, discontented. They were itching for a fight. "I was in a camp much like this one many years ago," Gandalf told Rann absentmindedly. "It wasn't far from here. Starks, Baratheons, Tullies, Arryns, all together in one great host."

Rann stopped in his tracks, staring at Gandalf. "You fought in Robert's Rebellion?"

"Fought?" Gandalf laughed. "No. Even then, I was old. But I did help, in my own way. It wasn't quite as the stories make it out to be. It was a complicated time…"

. . . . .

Third Age 2934/281 After Conquest

Rebel Camp, the Riverlands

"Damn it Gandalf!" Robert exclaimed, slamming his war hammer down onto the table. "The bastard has Lyanna, and you want us to negotiate with him?"

"The Mad King is our true enemy," Gandalf countered, "not Rhaegar. He is as aware of his father's madness as we are, and he has no desire to see more death, I assure you of that. And I believe there is more to the situation with Rhaegar and Lyanna than we know."

"What is there to know?" Robert questioned. "He kidnapped my betrothed, Ned's sister," he gestured wildly towards his friend across the war table, "and took her gods know where. He's probably raped her several times already!"

"Rhaegar was never one to-"

"Never one to what!?" Robert spat. "Steal a woman away from her family and her betrothed and have his way with her? Because that's exactly what he's done!"

"With all respect," Ned added, holding a hand out in an attempt to calm the situation, "we're a bit beyond negotiations now. We are in open rebellion against the throne. And he **does** have my sister."

"If we go to them under the flag of truce, they are as likely to hang us all as traitors as they are to actually treat with us," Hoster Tully added. "But if we win this battle, we win the war."

"And how many thousands will die?" Gandalf inquired. "We could stop the death here and now, without another drop of blood spilled."

Jon Arryn walked over and put his hand on Gandalf's shoulder, sharing in his pain. "I do not wish this any more than you do, old friend," he told him. "But we do not have any other choice. Rhaegar will not treat with us. Even if he wanted to, every single one of his advisors would press him not to do it, or to use the opportunity to set a trap for us all. The dead may haunt us, but if we want to be free of the Mad King, this battle is our only path."

Gandalf huffed, turning away. _When good men kill good men,_ he thought to himself, _who will be left?_ Rhaegar should have been leading this rebellion, not fighting into battle against it. Why had he taken Lyanna? It didn't make any sense. He sent many messages to the prince, hoping to find some reason for his actions, some answer to heal the realm. But no replies came, and now the men he had raised to help Rhaegar rule would instead face the prince on the battlefield. _Why, Rhaegar? Why did you take Lyanna? Why will you not speak with me?_

. . . . .

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

Robb Stark's Camp, the Riverlands

A strong wind blew through the camp, making the flaps of Robb's command tent flap wildly. Robb paid little attention, focused as he on the table at the center of the tent. A map of Westeros spread out before him, the different armies on it represented by stylized wolves, lions, krakens, etc. "The men are getting restless," he muttered. "We haven't had a real victory since Oxcross. We need to catch Tywin somehow."

"A problem, to be sure." Robb spun around and saw an old man standing at the entrance to his tent, dressed in worn grey robes, a pointed blue hat, and leaning on a gnarled wooden staff. His long beard stretched down his chest, his grey eyes strangely both younger and far older than the rest of him.

"Who are you?" Robb demanded. "Who let him enter my tent?"

"I'm sorry your Grace," a soldier standing next to the old man said with a bow. "He said he had urgent business with you. He says his name is Gandalf, and that he knew your father."

Robb walked forward slowly, carefully examining the old man. "Is this true?"

"I knew Ned very well, since he was a young boy. I was grieved to learn of his murder," Gandalf answered solemnly.

Robb nodded to himself, noting the use of the word "murder" instead of "passing". "And what brings you here, Gandalf?"

"To give you counsel in these dark times," he answered. "And tidings. Hopefully you can do what others could not. A great darkness has come to Westeros, and this is only the beginning."

. . . . .

At sea, off the coast of the Crownlands

Small rays of sunlight peeked through the windows and wooden ceiling, but the light they gave was sparse, giving the cabin a gloomy feel. It seemed appropriate though, seeing the circumstances. Salladhor Saan patted Davos on the back as they entered, the old friends settling into chairs opposite of one another.

"I thought you were dead," Salladhor stated as he walked to his chair. " **Everyone** thought you were dead." He did not sit down, instead standing with his hands on the table in front of him.

Davos said nothing, his mind consumed with thoughts of the battle. Behind his eyes he saw fire, green fire consuming everything. He could still feel the pain of bits of his flesh melting off. And still he could see the others, those closer to the flames as their bodies were consumed by it…

Salladhor could see the battle within Davos's eyes. "And your son?"

 _Fire._ The memory flashed through his mind, the image of his son, with all his faith and dreams and future, destroyed in an instant, consumed by the hellish flames. Shaking himself from the memory, Davos looked back up at his old friend and shook his head, unable to do anything more.

"He may have swam ashore, as you did," Salladhor told him, trying to sound reassuring.

Davos shook his head again, more vigorously this time. "No, the Wyldfire took him, I saw it." He breathed in sharply, trying to keep the painful memory from overwhelming him.

Salladhor looked away, not wanting to see that pain in his friend's eyes. He sat down, slumping into his chair. It took him a moment to find the right words. "I am so sorry, my friend," he said, turning back to Davos. "I too have lost a son. There is nothing worse in this world. But Davos," he pointed for emphasis, "you were a good father."

"If I was a good father he'd still be here." Davos settled back into his seat, trying to think of a way to change the subject. "Stannis lives?"

"For now," Salladhor answered. "They say one of your gods came down from the sky and struck him down for his sins. Others say that he was bested in single combat by an old man."

"That would be quite the old man," Davos scoffed.

Salladhor shrugged noncommittally. "Either way, Stannis is now a guest of the Lannisters, deep inside the Red Keep's dungeons."

"We must get him back!" Davos exclaimed, rising in his seat.

"There is nothing for me in King's Landing now other than a spike for my head," Salladhor stated plainly. "They've likely got one reserved for you as well."

"This war is not over," Davos insisted.

"Not for you, maybe. But for Salladhor Saan," he shrugged, "the war is over."

"We are both sworn to King Stannis-"

"I am sworn to no man!" Salladhor exclaimed. "I promised you thirty ships and **you** promised me riches and glory." He leaned in closer, his vice accusatory. "I delivered the ships."

Davos shook his head. "Stannis never gives up. Never. Once he gets out of the Black Cells-"

"He's a broken man," Salladhor interjected. "His fleet lies at the bottom of Blackwater Bay. He will likely be executed within the month. The Red Woman has taken over Dragonstone in his absence. Stannis's wife has stepped aside, letting the Red Woman take control and burn men alive."

"What?" Davos couldn't hide his shock. _Burning men alive?_ He had thought that he and the Red Woman had come to an understanding, but if this was true then he had been **very** wrong. He should have realized that something would happen. The two of them had been allies of circumstance against the Mouth, but they had never been friends. The Red Woman didn't like the Mouth's brand of sorcery, but she was just as much a dabbler in the dark arts as he. Stannis had seen it. He should have known better than to trust a witch like her.

"When she returned, they built a great fire," the pirate explained. "All those who spoke against her she called 'servants of darkness'. They say she sang to them as they burned." He stood up abruptly, pacing over to another table and pouring himself a goblet of wine. I'm a pirate, you're a smuggler. 'Servants of darkness.' I'm thinking anything connected to Stannis is good to avoid."

"Take me back to Dragonstone, please." Davos insisted, anger rising within him. He had been a fool to trust her. He should have killed her when he had the chance.

"You can't make her leave!" Salladhor countered, exasperated.

"Maybe not. But I can carve her heart out."

"You could try," Salladhor admitted. "If you fail, they will burn you. If you succeed, they will burn you. And you've only just come back to life, stay alive a little longer my friend." He took a deep drink from his wine, turning away from Davos to end the conversation. But Davos wasn't done.

"You call me friend," Davos said, leaning in, "you drank with me on my wedding day-"

"And you drank with me on **four** of my wedding days, but I don't ask you for favors!" Salladhor exclaimed, cutting him off.

"I have to stop her," Davos continued. "Please. Do this for me."

The pirate gave Davos a good long look before finally answering, his voice solemn. "When you are dead, I will gather your bones in a little sack, and let your widow wear them around her neck." With that he took another drink and walked out, leaving Davos alone with his thoughts.

. . . . .

The open sea, east of Essos

"There's nothing, captain!" the Ironborn sailor shouted from his place atop the main mast. "Nothing in any direction! Just open sea!"

 _Three weeks_ , the captain thought. For three weeks his pirate fleet had been caught in the biggest storm he had ever seen. The Ironborn knew the sea better than any others, but even they had been no match for this storm. They were sailing out in the Jade Sea when it caught them, the mightiest tempest to ever blow across the seas. They had been tossed about like children's playthings, unable to do anything beyond stay alive. And they hadn't even done a good job of that. Out of over a dozen ships, only three had survived the storm. If he had been anywhere near as religious as his brothers, he would have thought the Drowned God wanted him dead.

 _Well, if God wants me dead, he'll have to try harder than that._ Not that He would have to try very hard. They were running out of food and good water. If they didn't find land soon, his men were likely to start drinking seawater to sate their thirst. And that never went well.

"Wait!" the lookout exclaimed, his voice excited. "A ship on the horizon! A white ship, with white sails!"

 _A white ship?_ It certainly sounded strange, but a ship was a ship. "Well, what are you waiting for?!" he shouted to his crew. "Signal the other ships! That ship is ours!" His crew cheered, brandishing their weapons. Ironborn loved the sea, but they loved pillaging even more. Nothing would get their blood up like a good fight.

He pulled out his blade, grinning hungrily as the strange ship came within sight. It was shaped like a swan, the crafting so detailed it hurt his eyes. Or perhaps that was because it was so perfectly white that it reflected the sunlight better than the water did. Either way, he was going to enjoy tearing it apart.

As they drew nearer, the captain caught his first sight of the strange vessel's even stranger crew. They were tall, taller than most men he had seen, and all of them had fair skin, like Westerosi. The strangest part was that he had difficulty telling the women apart from the men, as they all seemed to be nearly the same height, and the men looked almost as pretty as the women. There was not a single beard on any of them, and their clothing was spotlessly clean. Some of them even seemed to glow.

"Captain," his first mate questioned. "Your orders?"

The captain turned to his first mate, his mutton chops framing his incredulous expression. "I don't care how pretty or shiny they are. Attack!"

. . . . .

It was a massacre, but not in the way the captain had expected. Only a few of the strange seafarers bore weapons and even fewer wore armor, but they fought like dragons. Ironborn fell by the dozen as the fae creatures cut through them, moving as fast as the wind and twice as graceful, weaving a tapestry of death with their bright blades flashing in the sun. Their armor turned away Ironborn blades as if they were practice swords, their weapons piercing Ironborn armor as if it was made of paper. One of the women (or at least he believed it was a woman) was slaughtering his men with a long spear, moving in a blur through the hardened warriors, when he stabbed her through the back, her eyes accusatory as the light in them went out. "You should have watched your back," he told her as she died. He noticed with interest something he hadn't during the fighting: her ears were longer than normal, with pointed tips. A quick glance at the other corpses found similarly pointed ears.

Finally, they killed the last of the superhuman warriors, a few of the noncombatants chained up and thrown onto the deck. "Two thirds of our men are dead, captain," his new first mate whispered, the former first mate fallen with a silvery blade through his chest. "What do you want to do with these… things?" Fear was obvious in his voice. It was a reasonable fear. After all, these creatures had slaughtered a force ten times their number when less than half of them even had weapons. But the captain had other thoughts on his mind.

He pulled one of the silvery blades from the ground, examining the weapon's strange shining metal, its gentle curve, and its fine edge. He tossed his old sword aside and slipped this new one into his belt. That done, he strode over to the strange prisoners with his thumbs looped into his belt, looking over them. He found one that was glowing, a man he assumed, from the lack of breasts. He leaned down and grabbed the creature's chin, pushing it to either side and examining it closely.

"What are you?" he whispered, intrigued. "Where do you come from?"

"I will tell you nothing," the glowing pointy-eared man hissed.

The captain, Euron Greyjoy, grinned at that. "Oh, I think you will tell me many things," he replied. "I can be a very persuasive man. I'm also very patient…"


	10. Interlude

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Interlude

Of the Ainur and the Gods of Westeros

Author's Note: Sorry for not updating for such a long while everyone. College has hit me like a sack of bricks, and I haven't had much time to write or watch tv (a necessary element to writing this story, as you might guess) lately. I am not sure when I will have time enough to start uploading chapters again, but so many of you have been following and favoriting even in my absence, and I didn't want to leave you with nothing until then. Luckily, I have a tendency to jot down miscellaneous notes during classes, so I've compiled some of the worldbuilding notes I've made about this combined LotR/GoT universe for you all. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope to get back to regular writing soon!

P.S. The first two sections ( **The Music of the Ainur** and **The Valar, the Maiar, and the Enemies** ) and are primarily comprised of excerpts from the _Silmarillion_ , and set the groundwork for those who are unfamiliar with the subject. Those of you already familiar with that material can skip those two sections if you want. The next three sections ( **The Spirits of Arda and Old Gods of the Forest** , **The War of Wrath and the Faith of the Seven** , and **Numenor, Sauron, and the Lord of Light** ) explain the connection the Valar and Maiar have to the gods of Westeros and Essos. All of this is done from the perspective of an unnamed in-universe author.

 **The Music of the Ainur**

In the beginning, Eru, the One, who in the Elvish tongue is named Ilúvatar, made the Ainur of his thought; and they made a great Music before him. In this Music the World was begun; for Ilúvatar made visible the song of the Ainur, and they beheld it as a light in the darkness. And many among them became enamored of its beauty, and of its history which they saw beginning and unfolding as in a vision. Therefore Ilúvatar gave their vision Being, and set it amid the Void, and the Secret Fire was sent to burn at the heart of the World; and it was called Eä.

Then those of the Ainur who desired it arose and entered into the World at the beginning of Time; and it was their task to achieve it, and by their labors lies to fulfill the vision which they had seen. Long they labored in the regions of Eä, which are cast beyond the thought of Elves and Men, until the time appoint was made Arda, the Kingdom of Earth. Then they put on the raiment of Earth and descended into it, and dwelt therein.

 **The Valar, the Maiar, and the Enemies**

The Great among these spirits the Elves name the Valar, the Powers of Arda, and Men have often called them gods. The Lords of the Valar are Seven, and the Valier, the Queens of the Valar, are Seven also. These are their names in the Elvish tongue as it was spoken in Valinor, though they have other names in the speech of the Elves in Middle-earth, and their names among Men are manifold. The names of the Lords in due order are: Manwë, Ulmo, Aulë, Oromë, Mandos, Lórien, and Tulkas; and the names of the Queens are: Varda, Yavanna, Nienna, Estë, Vairë, Vána, and Nessa.

Manwë was appointed to be the first of all Kings: lord of the realm of Arda and ruler of all that dwell therein. His delight is in the winds and the clouds and all regions of the air. All swift birds, string of wing, he loves, and they come and go at his bidding.

With Manwë dwells Varda, Lady of the Stars, who knows all the regions of Eä. In light is her power and joy.

Ulmo is the Lord of the Waters. He is alone. He dwells nowhere long, but moves as he will in all the deep waters about the Earth. All seas, lakes, rivers, fountains, and springs are in his government.

Aulë's lordship is over all the substances of which Arda is made. He is a smith and a master of all crafts, and he delights in works of skill. His are the gems which lie deep in the Earth and the gold that is fair in the hand, no less than the walls of the mountains and the basics of the sea.

The spouse of Aulë is Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits. She is the lover of all things that grow in the earth, and all their countless forms she holds in her mind, from the trees like towers in forests long ago to the moss upon stones or the small and secret things in the mould.

The Fëaturi, masters of spirits, are brethren, and they are called most often Mandos and Lorien. Mandos is the keeper of the Houses of the Dead, and the summoner of the spirits of the slain. He forgets nothing, and he knows all things that shall be, save only those that lie still in the freedom of Ilúvatar. Vairë the Weaver is his spouse, who weaves all things that have ever been in Time into her storied webs.

Lorien is the master of visions and dreams. Estë the gentle, healer of hurts and of weakness, is his spouse.

The sister of the Fëanturi is Nienna; she dwells alone. She is acquainted with grief, and mourns for every wound that Arda has suffered. Those who hearten to her learn pity, and endurance in hope. She brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom.

Greatest in strength and deeds of prowess is Tulkas the Valiant. He came last to Arda, to aid the Valar in the first battles with Melkor. He delights in wrestling and in contests of strength; and he rides no steed, for he can outrun all things that go on feet, and he is tireless. His weapons are his hands.

His spouse is Nessa, the sister of Oromë, and she is also lithe and fleetfooted. Deer she loves, but she can outrun them, swift as an arrow with the wind in her hair. In dancing she delights.

Oromë is a mighty lord. If he is less strong than Tulkas, he is more dreadful in anger. He is a hunter of monsters and fell beasts and he delights in horses and in hounds; and all trees he loves. The spouse of Oromë is Vána, the Ever-young; she is the younger sister of Yavanna. All flowers spring as she passes and open if she glanced upon them; and all birds sing at her coming.

With the Valar came other spirits whose being also began before the World, of the same order of the Valar but of less degree. These are the Maiar, people of the Valar, and their servants and helpers. Their number is not known to the Elves, and few have names in any of the tongues of the Children of Ilúvatar. They are many, but of all the Maiar Ossë and Uinen are best known to the Children of Ilúvatar.

Ossë is a vassal or Ulmo, and he is master of the seas that wash the shores of Middle-earth. He does not go in the deeps, but loves the coasts and the isles, and rejoices in the winds of Manwë; for in storms he delights, and laughs amid the roaring of the waves. His spouse is Uinen, the Lady of the Seas. All creatures she loves that live in the salt streams, and all weeds that grow there; to her mariners cry, for she can lay calm upon the waves, restraining the wildness of Ossë.

Melkor, the Enemy, tried to draw Ossë to his allegiance, promising all the realm and power of Ulmo, if he would serve him. So it was that long ago there arose great tumults in the sea that wrought ruin to the lands. But Uinen, at the prayer of Aulë, restrained Ossë and brought him before Ulmo; and he was pardoned and returned his allegiance, to which he has remained faithful. For the most part; for the delight in violence never wholly departed from him, and at times he will rage in his willfulness without any command from Ulmo his lord. Therefore those who dwell by the sea or go up in ships may love him, but they do not trust him.

Last of all is set the name of Melkor, He who arises in Might. But that name he has forfeited; and the Noldor, who among the Elves suffered most from his malice, will not utter it, and they name him Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World. Great night was given to him by Ilúvatar, and he was coëval with Manwë. In powers and knowledge of all the other Valar he had part, but he turned them to evil purposes, and squandered his strength in violence and tyranny. For he covered Arda and all that was in it, desiring the kingship of Manwë and dominion over the realms of his peers.

He began with the desire of Light, but when he could not possess it for himself alone, he descended through fire and wrath unto a great burning, down into Darkness. And darkness he used most in his evil worlds upon Arda, and filled it with fear for all living things. But he was not alone. For of the Maiar many were drawn to his splendor in the days of his greatness, and remained in that allegiance down into his darkness; and others he corrupted afterwards to his service with lies and treacherous gifts. Dreadful among these spirits were the Valaraukar, the scourges of fire that in Middle-earth were called the Balrogs, demons of terror.

Among those of his servants that have names the greatest was that spirit whom the Eldar called Sauron, or Gorthaur the Cruel, who was once named Mairon, the Admirable. He served Morgoth until his fall, and in after years he rose like a shadow of Morgoth and a ghost of his malice, and walked behind him on the same ruinous path down into the Void.

 **The Spirits of Arda and the Old Gods of the Forest**

The Elves know something that Men too often forget: All of Arda is alive. In the Elder Days, before the Ages of the Sun, when the stars gave light to Middle-earth and the Two Trees still shone in Valinor, the Elves wandered the wild world and woke the sleeping trees, teaching them to speak and learning their tree-talk. After the trees, they spoke to the grass and the stones beneath their feet, learning all the languages of the natural world. From mighty mountains to small shrubs, all live and have voices of their own, and the Elves long ago mastered the lore of all of them.

But the Elves were not the only ones to discover this truth. Far across the sea, in the savage land of Westeros, in ages forgotten the Children of the Forest spoke to the trees and the stones. But while the Elves simply sought unity and understanding, the Children of the Forest worshipped the spirits of rock and tree, giving them the name of the Gods of the Forest, though Men in later ages would know them as the Old Gods. The Children shared their understanding of the living world with the First Men, who carried on the worship of their gods long after the Children themselves had vanished from the world.

The Children of the Forest seem to me to be similar in purpose to the Onodrim, the Tree-Shepards, known among Men as the Ents. They protected the forests of Westeros much like the Ents protect the woodlands of Middle-earth. It is also possible that they were once Elves, who became so engrossed in their love of the woods that they began to take upon themselves the likeness of trees. Whatever their origins, they were already long dead by the time of Númenor, when the Men and Elves of Middle-earth first set foot on the soil of Westeros, though never for long.

 **The War of Wrath and the Faith of the Seven**

The lives of Men are short, and their memories even shorter. Men knew little of the Valar in their earliest days, and much of what they knew was clouded by the lies of Melkor, who discovered their awakening in the East early and sought to turn them to darkness. The first time Men saw the Valar in their glory was the War of Wrath, when the Lords of the West came with all their mighty host to make war on Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World, who in ages past was named Melkor. This war came to be known of the War of Wrath because all the might and terrible power of the Valar was unleashed, and all of the evil designs of Morgoth were unchained and set loose upon the world.

Many fled the devastation wrought by the Powers in their wrath, and among these were Men, who fled south, to the land now known as Essos. These Men mixed with the peoples already settled in those lands, telling them of the coming of the Gods of the West and their war with the Darkness. From these Men came the Andals, and as time passed and the memory of Men waned, from their tales came the Faith of the Seven and the concept of the Seven-Faced God.

From Manwë, King of Arda and judge of all, came the concept of the Father, representative of divine justice. From Nienna the Compassionate, Lady of Mercy, and Yavanna, Queen of the Earth, came the concept of the Mother, representative of mercy and fertility. From Vána the Ever-young came the concept of the Maiden, representative of purity and innocence. From Vairë the Weaver came the concept of the Crone, representative of wisdom, foresight, and fate. From Tulkas the Valiant came the concept of the Warrior, representative of strength and courage in battle. From Aulë the Smith came the concept of the Smith, for obvious reasons. Finally, from Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar and Keeper of the Houses of the Dead, comes the concept of the Stranger, representative of death and the unknown.

Other gods of Westeros and Essos also likely have their origins in the tales of the Valar that came out of the War of Wrath, or from the actions of their vassals in later ages. Ossë loves storms and delights in violence, and it is almost certainly from him that the Ironborn developed their belief in the savage Drowned God. Other gods I have not studied as deeply, but it is my belief that the Weeping Woman of Lys, like the Mother, has her origins in Nienna, while the Moon-Pale Maiden worshiped by sailors in Essos might have come from tales of Uinen.

 **Númenor, Sauron, and the Lord of Light**

In the Second Age, the Men of Númenor mastered all the seas of Arda, and sailed East and South and set up many kingdoms and colonies, over which they first reigned as teachers of the Men of those lands. To the people of Essos they taught the worship of Eru, the One, and for many centuries the people gave their first-fruits to Eru and had peace. When the Men of Númenor discovered Valyria and its dragon riders, the two empires flourished and grew together in learning, wisdom, and might.

But it was not to last. The Men of Númenor began to resent the ageless and deathless state of the Elves and Valar, dreaming of life everlasting, casting aside the gift of Ilúvatar and calling it the Doom of Men. They no longer came as teachers, but as rulers and conquerors and Men of war. Much of Númenor abandoned the worship of Eru, and without their guidance the people they had taught began to err in their beliefs.

Then Ar-Pharazôn, last and greatest of the kings of Númenor, came to Middle-earth with a great host, and he returned with Sauron, the last Great Enemy of Men, in chains. But Sauron was crafty, and he swiftly became the king's closest advisor, deceiving Ar-Pharazôn and his people into the worship of Melkor, the Lord of the Dark, and build great temples where they burnt all those who dissented as offerings to him. They taught this dark worship and foul practices to those they had conquered, and among the people of Essos this mixed with the already changed worship of Eru.

As he grew old, Ar-Pharazôn went to war against the Valar, in hope of claiming life eternal, which he believed the Valar kept from him out of spite and greed, all due to the whispers of Sauron. This angered the Valar, who called upon Eru, and Ar-Pharazôn's great fleet was buried deep within the Earth, while Númenor in all its greatness sank beneath the waves.

Over time, the worship of Eru and Melkor mixed among the people of Essos, and from this merging of teachings came the faith of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, and his eternal enemy, the Great Other. R'hllor's nature as a benevolent god of light comes from the old faith in Eru, with his enemy of the Great Other as an evil god of darkness comes from the understanding of Melkor as the Lord of Darkness, but that is not all. Even their belief in a god of light was corrupted by the teachings and practices of the followers of Melkor. The idea of R'hllor as the God Flame and Shadow comes from these teachings, as does the idea of shadows as children of fire. This influence can also be seen in the sorcery practiced by the priests of the Lord of Light, much like that practiced by the servants of the Enemy, and in their often burning of unbelievers alive as offerings to their god, a practice passed down from the Men of Númenor and taught to them by Sauron.

Other gods of Essos likely had their origins in the teachings of Sauron and Númenor, especially those that include human sacrifices, such as the Black Goat of Qohor. The Lion of Night also likely has his origins in the worship of Melkor.

 **Final Notes**

I have long wondered about how the the knowledge of Eru and the Valar, which the Men of Middle-earth have kept in their remembrance mostly unblemished by the ages, could have been so altered and even perverted among the peoples of Essos and Westeros. There are many elements that might have influenced this divergence, from the fact that few Men have put as much pain into histories and lore as the Dúnedain to the tendency of petty rulers to edit such texts when it suits them, but the largest difference seems to me to be the simple lack of first and second hand accounts.

As I have before stated, the lives of men are short, and their memories even shorter. However, the lives of Elves are endless, and their memories remain as bright and true as the day those memories were made. Many Elves that remain today in Middle-earth either remember the days of Morgoth or have known others who remember those days. While Elves did occasionally travel to Essos or Westeros during the days of Númenor, before its darkness, they never stayed long, and by that point many of these faiths had already cemented themselves. But in Middle-earth, Elves still dwell in great numbers, and have had many interactions with Men, teaching them much in the lore of the world. Only in this last age have Men and Elves distanced themselves from one another in Middle-earth, and much of that has occurred in the later half of the age.

There is much I still wish to impart upon you my friends, but on the subject of the Ainur and the gods of Men, this is all I have to say at this time. I hope to soon delve into other subjects in the future that concern the divorced peoples of Middle-earth and Westeros, particularly the origins of creatures such as the Children, as earlier stated, or the Giants from beyond the Wall, or the Valyrian dragons, which share many similarities with but yet are different from those great fire-drakes of the north. Until that time, farewell.


	11. Chapter 8

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 8

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. College life has been keeping me busy. I can't guarantee that I will be uploading chapters with any consistency, but I do continue to keep working on this. As disappointing as the most recent season of Game of Thrones was, I still love the show itself. Who knows, perhaps the contributions of certain LotR characters will lead to a very different ending in my version. Anyways, thanks for reading, and hopefully you'll see me again soon.

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

Dragonstone, the Crownlands

Dragonstone was even darker than usual, a gloom hanging over the island. It was not the oppressive, mystical darkness brought by the Mouth of Sauron. It was a different sort of gloom, more real and yet more ephemeral at the same time. Perhaps the gloom wasn't even over the island at all. Perhaps the gloom came only from Davos's own mind. Whatever the source, Davos could feel its oppressive weight as he stepped off the boat, heading towards what he knew would likely be his death. But if it was his time to meet the gods, he didn't intend to go alone.

. . . . .

Melisandre smiled as the guards brought Davos into the map room. He wanted to spit on her smug face, to charge her, but he didn't. "Greetings, Ser Davos," she told him with a nod.

"Lady Melisandre," he replied, bowing slightly. "I hear you've taken command of Dragonstone in our king's absence."

"I have."

He took a step forward. "And that you've been burning prisoners alive." There was a dangerous edge to his voice that he couldn't quite keep out of it.

"How would you punish the infidels, Ser Davos?" she asked, tilting her head.

"I do not judge people for the gods they worship," he growled, stepping forward again. "If I did I-" he cut himself off, realizing what he was about to say. _I would have thrown you in the sea before you ever set foot on Dragonstone!_ He glanced back at the guards, standing at attention at the doors. He wasn't close enough, not yet.

She smiled knowingly. "I am not your enemy."

Davos remained silent.

"Was it me you fought on Blackwater Bay?" she questioned, walking towards him. "Did I set your ships ablaze? Was I the one who fought our king in the streets of King's Landing and pushed your troops back from the walls?" She was so close to him now… "You did not see what I saw. The man of light. There is no power in Westeros that could have given us victory that day." She drew even closer. "We stood together against the Mouth of Sauron. We both knew the Ring would bring our king only sorrow. Let us stand together once more. You and I."

"No!" Davos pulled out his knife and attempted to stab her through the heart, but even close as they were, he was too slow. Guards grabbed him by the arms and held him, keeping his blade from driving his blade through her heart as they pulled him away. "Witch!" he cried as they pulled him back.

She gestured at the guards and they paused, still holding Davos but no longer carrying him off. "I spoke the truth," she assured him, her voice as frighteningly calm as ever. "I am not your enemy. You think I came here to supplant our king, now that he is in the hands of the wicked. Nothing could be further from the truth."

Davos said nothing in return, still struggling against the guards. But they were young and strong, and he was old. He had no chance of breaking free.

"I did not come back here to rule," Melisandre repeated. "I came back to prepare our king's escape.

That caught Davos's attention. "What?"

"The old man has left the city," Melisandre continued. "And he has taken his power with him. I could never stand against such a being. But now with him gone, we have a chance. I have seen it in the flames. Only you and I together can save Stannis from certain death."

It took a moment for Davos to comprehend what she was saying. "You believe we can save Stannis?"

"Only if we act now," she answered, gesturing for the guards to let him go. Davos thought about it, but chose not to charge her when they did so. "It is not the Lord of Light's will for our king to die this day, nor for many days to come. Together we can fulfill His will and free Stannis from execution."

"I still don't know much about gods," Davos muttered. "But if it means we can save Stannis, I will do what I can." _And after that I will talk with him about your actions here._

. . . . .

Harrenhal, the Riverlands

"I always pictured you as a Maester," Robb mused, staring into the fires of the hearth in the chambers he had taken over. "When my father told stories of the ancient and wise Gandalf the Grey, I imagined you with a chain around your neck."

"A Maester?" Gandalf harrumphed from his seat, letting a large smoke ring sail out the open window. Robb still wasn't sure what to think of the old man's… unusual hobby. "A fraternity of fools." Robb opened his mouth to object, thinking of Maester Luwin, but Gandalf cut him off. "Oh, there are a few intelligent men in their ranks, but on the whole I've found them a rather unsavory lot, too full of their own perceived self-importance."

Robb looked back at Gandalf, raising an eyebrow. "And you're different?"

"Entirely," Gandalf agreed. "When I say a thing, I know it."

There was a pause as Robb stared into the flickering flames, Gandalf silently puffing at his pipe. "Where have you been all these years?" Robb finally asked. "You advised kings. You helped raise both my father and Robert Baratheon. And then once Robert took the Iron Throne you just… vanished. If you are as wise as my father always said, why didn't you stay?"

Robb saw a deep sadness in Gandalf's eyes then, the eyes of someone who had seen far too many friends leave this world. "Even the very wise cannot see all ends," Gandalf answered. "And there was much work I needed to do across the sea. I had hoped that with Jon and Ned advising him, Robert would have a long and prosperous reign. But there was much that I did not foresee."

"Much you did not foresee?" Robb questioned incredulously, anger overcoming sense. "My father is dead! The Lannisters' bastard sits on the Iron Throne! We are at war! Did you 'foresee' any of that?!"

Gandalf's shoulders slumped, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes as he bowed his head. "No. I did not." He took a deep breath, his strength returning to him. "But it is worse than you realize."

"Because Tywin has a magic ring?" Robb asked. "That sounds just as mad coming out of my own mouth as it did when you first made the claim."

"But it is true nonetheless. Unfortunately, Tywin is the least of our concerns." Robb raised an eyebrow, and Gandalf continued. "Tywin is a cruel man, and the Ring's influence will only make him crueler. But he is still only a Man. One much older and fouler than the Lannisters desires this land. The fact that the Ring is here means that Sauron has set his sights on Westeros. The Dark Lord does not give away Rings of Power at a whim. He seeks to claim Westeros for his own, and he will not be easily dissuaded."

"Terrible as you say this Dark Lord is," Robb countered. "He is far from here. I would rather worry about the enemy before us."

"Indeed?" Gandalf looked up at him, his bushy eyebrows lifted slightly, before turning away and taking another puff from his pipe. "Yes, the Lannisters are a more immediate threat, and are not to be underestimated. But be careful not to become so focused on the enemy before you that you ignore the one behind."

 _When father told me about him, I never imagined he'd be so… frustrating_ , Robb thought to himself. "Do you have any other wise words for me then?" he questioned, not expecting a real answer from the old wizard.

"I suppose I do," Gandalf mused. "You should know that you will have to give up a great many personal desires before this is all done. A king must often choose his people over himself, especially in war."

Robb glared at him, his mind going immediately to his marriage and his mother's counsel against it. "And what does that mean?"

Gandalf chuckled, but his eyes were serious. "A great many things," he answered.

Yes, Robb could see it in his eyes. The old man might not have said it outright, but it was obvious. Gandalf believed his wedding to Talisa was a fool's move, just like his mother did. Just like all his other advisors did.

"Honor is a difficult master to serve," Gandalf continued. "It often seems to pull in many different directions, and you will see that every decision you make has consequences. Consequences even a wizard cannot stop."

. . . . .

King's Landing, the Crownlands

It was dark in the Black Cells. No light found its way down there, down in the depths of the Red Keep's dungeons. Yet to Stannis the cells seemed as bright as midday. Perhaps it was some portion of the Ring's power lingering in him, or perhaps it was simply the contrast. After his time bound by true darkness, the mere lack of light did little to hinder his vision.

His time in the Black Cells gave him time to think, and in that time, he had realized just how great of a fool he had been. He had thought himself a king, when in truth he had been a slave. _I called myself king, while I let myself be used like a puppet._ It was obvious, now that the Ring was no longer on his finger, twisting his mind. And yet…

…and yet he still wanted it. He remembered the power, the thrill of it. The feeling of being a god. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the weight of it on his finger. "It's mine," he whispered. "My own… my…"

He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away. It was poison. It had corrupted his mind, twisted him into a monster. Made him into something he wasn't.

"I murdered my brother," he whispered. "I stabbed him through the heart. I consorted with sorcerers and demons. All because of that Ring." But it wasn't just the Ring. He didn't want to admit it, but it was true. Looking inwardly, he wasn't sure he would have truly done anything differently, even without the Ring.

 _What does that make me?_

 _A monster._

"Oh Renly," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He sobbed into his hands, his stone façade finally broken.

. . . . .

On the road in the Riverlands

The more he stayed in this strange land, the more conflicted Athelon became. He had seen true kindness in his time there, as people gave of what little they had to those who had less. He had seen nobility, and on those occasions he felt almost as if he was witnessing a vision of his home. But far, far more often he beheld crude foulness and depravity. Worst of all, he saw the strong, those who had the solemn responsibility to help and protect the weak, using their strength to take from those who had nothing. Just as these men were doing.

The group of soldiers had surrounded a poor family, far beneath the foliage from which Athelon watched. They were part of one of the many armies that roved these lands, often acting more like rabid dogs than actual soldiers. These men bore the symbol of a lion, a symbol that should have stood for honor and bravery, but here only stood for an excuse to get personal gain. He had been in this land long enough now to have heard the name of that faction many times: Lannister. Quite a regal-sounding name, for a house whose men were little more than bandits. "Come on now," one of the soldiers said. "We know you have something to eat in that little farm of yours. It's your duty to your king."

"We-we don't have anything," a man, presumably the patriarch of the family, stammered out weakly. "We barely have enough to feed our family."

"Well then, I guess we will just have to find something else to satisfy us," one of the other soldiers replied with a cruel sneer, snatching the arm of the farmer's eldest daughter. "You're a pretty one, aren't you?"

"Aaaghh!" the soldier staggered backward and screamed in pain, clutching the arrow that was now lodged within his forearm. "Who did that?" one of the other soldiers questioned, the men drawing their swords and searching around them frantically. They saw no sign of Athelon. "Come out and face us like a man, you-" His words became a gurgle as an arrow found his throat, blood pouring from his mouth as he fell to the ground.

"The rest of you should find somewhere else to sate your appetites," Athelon called out, the soldiers trying and failing to pinpoint the origin of the echoing voice. "Unless you want matching arrows in your own throats." They didn't need any more encouragement. The men fled, the soldier with the arrow in his arm taking the rear.

Once he was certain they were gone Athelon dropped down from above, landing in a crouch. The family stared at him as he retrieved his arrow, cleaning in on the grass. "You might want to find somewhere else to live, if you can," Athelon told them. "From the way things are looking, this war is only going to get worse."

He left without another word, leaving the stunned family gaping at him as he vanished into the forest. It wasn't much later that he realized that he wasn't alone.

 _I'm being tracked._

That was impossible. No one could track him. Well, perhaps another ranger could do it, but certainly no one in this Valar-forsaken land had the skill.

 _I'll just have to test the extent of their skill._

Athelon picked up his pace, weaving through the undergrowth in complete silence, doubling back on himself and laying false trails, using every trick he knew as he moved deeper into the forest. Finally, when he was sure he had lost them, he leapt into the treetops and moved through the canopy swiftly and silently, going back down his path without touching the ground.

He found them puzzling over an area where his tracks converged multiple times, leaving an imperceptible mess that made it nearly impossible to determine which direction he had actually went.

"This guy's good, whoever he is," one of the men, who were all dressed in simple tunics and piecemeal armor, said, rubbing his chin. "I should be able to figure it out, given time, but by then he will likely be long gone." There were six of them in all, all gathering around the man examining Athelon's tracks.

"Doesn't this seem a bit excessive?" another man, an older fellow with a patch over one eye, asked. Looking at his bearing, Altheron discerned that he was the leader of this band.

"Not if he knew he was being followed," the other man answered. "We were doing a pretty good job of staying quiet and hidden, but this man is obviously an expert. He probably saw us coming from a mile away."

The leader paused, a realization passing across his face. "And what would a man like that do if we kept following him?"

"Well, once he had lost us, he'd probably…" the other man's eyes widened as he realized what his leader was implying. "He'd probably come back to deal with the threat."

"You're smarter than you look," Athelon said, his voice echoing, the men all searching around them frantically for him, suddenly realizing the danger they were in. "I'll give you that."

 _Why does no one ever look up?_ Athelon wondered. It wouldn't do them any good of course, he was too well hidden for any of them to get a glimpse. _But still, you'd think_ _ **someone**_ _would look up once or twice. But no one ever does._

"I'm glad we found you," the leader called out, looking remarkably composed, especially compared to the rest of his men. "My name is Beric Dondarrion, and I am the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners. We were hoping to speak with you."

"And what exactly were you hoping to speak with me about?" Athelon questioned, moving through the canopy to keep the band ignorant to his location.

"We saw what you did for that family," Dondarrion answered. "You did a good thing, helping those people. We in the Brotherhood do what we can to help the people of this land against all those who seek to harm them, no matter who they fight for. We could use someone with your skills in the Brotherhood."

Athelon squinted down at the man suspiciously, moving so that he could see into the man's undamaged eye (Dondarrion was facing the wrong direction). He could sense no lie in the man's words. _Could there really be some men of honor to be found in this land?_

Finally, Athelon answered. "Tell me more…"

. . . . .

King's Landing, the Crownlands

Multitudes thronged the square, crowding in to see the spectacle. On the steps before the Sept of Baelor kneeled the false king Stannis Baratheon. On the steps behind him stood the Grand Maester, the Master of Whisperers, the Master of Coin, several members of the Kingsguard, the King, and Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King. They stood silent and proud, while Stannis kneeled, grey and broken.

It broke Davos's heart to see his king reduced to that. _Stannis is the one true king._ All the rest of those on those steps were jackals, vultures circling over his king. Stannis looked decades older, and Davos suspected that accursed Ring was to blame. A ring that he realized Stannis was no longer wearing. The fingers of Stannis's ring hand were replaced by blood-crusted stumps, the Ring nowhere to be seen.

 _Of course, they wouldn't let him keep it,_ he thought. _They probably want its dark magic for themselves._ Dark magic. Already Davos had seen it cause so much pain and suffering. And now here he was, sneaking into King's Landing with the Red Woman, who undoubtedly had some sort of dark magic of her own planned. _Stannis needs me_ , he reminded himself. _I can worry about everything else once he is safely out of here._

"Lord Stannis Baratheon has been tried and found guilty of treason against the Crown," Tywin Lannister declared, his voice ringing across the square. "He led a rebellion and laid siege to King's Landing in an attempt to steal the throne from the rightful king, King Joffrey." He paused, allowing the crowd to cheer. "For his crimes, he is sentenced to death."

"What are you waiting for?" Davos whispered, grabbed Melisandre by the arm as the executioner walked forward. After receiving no response, he looked back to find Melisandre staring with wide eyes at Tywin Lannister. Davos glanced back at him, and he saw it. The Ring. It hung by a chain around his neck, the gem still seeming to glow faintly with a dark, sinister light. Melisandre continued to stare at the Ring, unable to move as the executioner pulled out a massive blade. "Do something!" he hissed, shaking her now. "You said we could save him!"

"I was wrong," she whispered. "That Ring. With it here, I can do nothing. My magic is useless against it. We have failed."

"No!" Davos threw her aside and pushed forward through the crowd, but it was too tight. He could barely move, and Stannis was still too far away. _He can't die. Not now._

He felt a hand on his arm and he turned back to see that the Red Woman had grabbed ahold of him, her eyes remorseful. "We need to leave," she told him. "We can do nothing now."

The executioner's blade fell, and Stannis's head rolled.


	12. Chapter 9

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 9

Author's Note: Dang I am terrible at this. If you were worried that I had given up on this story, don't be. It's still chugging along, just slower than any of us would probably like. I will keep uploading chapters as I finish them, and hopefully you keep enjoying the story I have to tell. Thanks for reading, and I hope we will see each other again soon.

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

Dragonstone, the Crownlands

Shireen Baratheon was singing when Davos came to her chambers. Her voice was sweet and gentle. Innocent. He hesitated at the door, unable to move forward. Why did he decide that he had to be the one to give her the news?

 _Because no one else knows her like you do. No one who would be in any state to speak to her, at least._

They still hadn't told Shireen's mother. Stannis's wife, Selyse, was a fervent believer in the Lord of Light. When they had left, Melisandre had promised that they would return with Stannis, and Selyse had wholeheartedly believed her. As far as Davos knew, she was still waiting in her and Stannis's chambers, waiting faithfully for her husband's victorious return. With her mental state of late, Davos wasn't certain how she would react when she learned the truth.

But he had someone else to worry about first. Someone he was even more worried about learning the truth. She was still so young, so innocent. She shouldn't have to be confronted with painful truths. Why couldn't she remain innocent for just a little longer? Inside, Shireen continued to sing.

"The birds have scales, and the fish take wing,

I know I know, oh, oh, oh…"

Taking a deep breath, Davos opened the heavy door, stepping into the dimly lit stone chamber. "Shireen," he whispered, looking down at her tiny form huddled on the bed against the far wall.

"Onion Knight!" she exclaimed, racing out of bed to hug him. He hugged her back, smiling to mask the pain he felt. She pulled away, smiling up at him. "Mother said you and Father fought in a battle," she told him as she led him towards a chair. "Did you win?"

Davos didn't know what his face looked like, but based on Shireen's change in expression, he wasn't doing a very good job at hiding his emotions. "N-no," he finally stammered. "No, we didn't."

"Is Father going to visit?" she asked. Such a simple question.

"No, he isn't," Davos told her, his voice breaking, tears blurring his vision. He stepped off the chair and knelt, placing a hand gently on Shireen's shoulder. "Your father fought bravely," he lied, "but it wasn't enough."

"What do you mean?" she questioned, backing up.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "But your father isn't coming home."

"You mean he's dead?"

It took him a moment to answer, but eventually he gathered the strength. "Yes. He is."

Shireen burst into tears and Davos held her close, the two of them mourning together.

. . . . .

Selyse Baratheon watched as her daughter hugged a man that Selyse had never liked. But the Onion Knight was not the man consuming her thoughts in that moment. That was her husband. Her dead husband. The husband that she had been promised was the Lord's chosen. The husband that she had been promised would return safely to her.

She wandered in a haze, barely seeing the castle around her. "He's not dead," she reasoned with herself. "The Lord of Light wouldn't allow it. I just need to prove my faith." She found her way to the highest point of Dragonstone. "I just need to prove my faith," she repeated, "and the Lord will return him to me." Her turned to the only window in the chamber, opened it, and stepped out into the open air.

. . . . .

"Today we mourn the death of our king, Stannis Baratheon," Melisandre called out to the gathered crowd as she stood in front of the fire. "Murdered in King's Landing by traitors in league with darkness. We also mourn the death of his wife, Queen Selyse Baratheon. Know that the Lord of Light watches over us all, and that our king and queen have entered into the Lord's rest. And know this," while her voice was cool, her fiery gaze pierced everyone in the crowd. "Our king's death will not go unavenged. The Lord of Light will punish the wicked and the heathen. It may not be today or tomorrow, but the Lord of the Light will pour down his wrath and all the servants of darkness will fall."

With that she stepped away from the fire, a mostly composed maester taking her place. "By right of birth and inheritance, the Lady Shireen Baratheon is hereby named the Lady of Dragonstone and the Stormlands. With the Lady still at a very young and tender age, she has determined that Ser Davos Seaworth will represent her as the acting Lord of Dragonstone and the Stormlands until she comes of age."

The crowd cheered, though Davos thought they sounded a little forced. He couldn't blame them. Stannis had been executed only days before and his wife had killed herself less than a day before. It wasn't a time that anyone could really feel celebratory. He certainly didn't. Melisandre appeared next to him then, stepping out of the night as the maester droned on.

"You are now one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms," Melisandre told him. "How does it feel?"

"It feels like I have a thousand arrows pointed directly at my chest," he answered honestly. "Stannis's bannermen have all fled back to their keeps and holdfasts. Men were willing to follow Stannis into war, but they won't fight for Shireen's claim now that he is dead."

"If I remember correctly, that is why we did not attempt to name her queen here," Melisandre replied.

"That doesn't make my situation any less difficult," Davos argued. "I won't bow before the men who killed Stannis. But I can't fight them either."

"Don't worry about the future," Melisandre whispered. "The Lord will provide."

Davos gave her a worried look. "That's what I'm afraid of."

. . . . .

King's Landing, the Crownlands

The last leg of the walk to the new Small Council chamber had been an uncomfortable one, as Varys, Baelish, and Pycelle all met in the hallway at the same time. None of them particularly liked the others, so after the required acknowledgements they all made their way to the council chamber without looking at one another, unconsciously hastening their strides to get the walk over with.

They entered the room together and all stopped suddenly, surprised with what they found. Tywin stood by his chair at the far end of the long table, a table that only had chairs on one side. After their initial moment of shock, they all realized what this was. It was a statement. By placing himself at the head of the table, Tywin was declaring that he was the most powerful one in the room. By placing chairs on only one side of the table, he was making them jockey for power by their proximity to him at the table.

 _It's a brilliant move, of course,_ Varys thought, glancing at the other two with him. _I wonder which of us will jump first._

Varys heard footsteps behind them and turned around to see Tyrion walking in, who stopped and smirked when he saw the situation. Tywin took his seat then, giving them all a look that said "Well, are you going to sit down or not?" Varys moved to answer, but Littlefinger was quicker, stepping past the eunuch to hurry to the seat directly next to Tywin and forcing him and Pycelle to take the next two seats.

He looked back at the door as Cersei walked in, Tyrion still standing at the doorway with that same smirk on his face. Tyrion turned that smirk towards Cersei as she assessed the situation, and Varys realized that Tyrion was quite enjoying the little game his father had made them all play. That mirth couldn't last, however. After Cersei took her spot, Tyrion would have to play the game as well.

Then Cersei did something he did not expect. She walked over to the table, grabbed a chair, and picked it up, carrying it over to the other side of the table to sit next to her father. _A clever move,_ Varys thought with a smile. None of them had thought to change the rules like that.

All of them turned to Tyrion then, and Varys was certain they all shared the same thought. _And what will he choose?_ There was only one seat remaining, the seat furthest away from Tywin. He could of course leave the room entirely, but Varys doubted Tyrion would give up so easily. Would he follow his sister's example and move a chair to sit by her? Would he accept the place allotted to him?

After a moment, Tyrion strode forward slowly, grabbing the last remaining chair, and dragged it. The sound was grating, like the screeching of an unusually deep-voiced cat, a sound that made you want to plug your ears immediately – though no one did. Finally, Tyrion stopped at the spot at the table directly opposite of his father. If Cersei's move had been clever, it still could not match Tyrion's move for boldness. He had placed himself in direct opposition of Tywin while making sure Tywin knew it. Of course, Tyrion wasn't content with leaving it at that.

"Intimate," Tyrion declared with mock sincerity. "Lovely table. Better chairs than the old Small Council chamber. Conveniently close to your own quarters. I like it."

Tywin turned his head to the rest of the Council, ignoring his son. "What news of Jaime?" The only reply was the sound of rattling chains as the Grand Maester shifted in his seat. "Twenty thousand unwashed Northerners have known about his escape for weeks. Collectively, you control more spies and informants than the rest of the world combined. Do you mean to tell me that none of you has any notion of where he is?"

"We are trying, my lord," Varys answered humbly.

" **Try harder** ," Tywin commanded, his voice seeming to ring with power. Varys suddenly felt as if a force where weighing down upon him, the command silencing him with some unnatural power. All he could do was bow his head. For a moment the gem of the ring dangling from Tywin's seemed almost to glow. If not for Gandalf's words before the siege, Varys might have brushed it aside. But with those words ringing through his mind, he focused his attention on the Ring.

"What do we have then?" Tywin asked, his voice normal once more.

Suddenly finding himself capable of speech once more, Varys recovered quickly and hurried to answer. "Rob Stark and most of his bannermen are in Riverrun for the funeral of his grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully. In Stark's absence, Roose Bolton holds Harrenhal." He turned to Baelish for a moment, smiling slightly. "Which would seem to make **him** Lord of Harrenhal, in practice if not in name."

"Well, he can have it," Tywin said dismissively. "The name suits our purposes far more than that useless pile of rubble." He turned his gaze to Littlefinger. "The Lord of Harrenhal will make a worthy suitor for the widow Aryn."

"For which I am extremely grateful to you, my Lord," Littlefinger replied. "Lady Arryn and I have known each other since we were children. She has always been… positively predisposed toward me." He allowed himself a little grin then, while Varys glanced at him with a mix of – and disgust, glancing back at the others to check their reactions.

"A successful courtship would make Lord Baelish acting Lord of the Vale," Pycelle commented, as if everyone else in the room didn't already realize that fact.

"Titles do seem to breed titles," Baelish agreed.

"You'll leave for the Eyrie as soon as possible and bring Lysa Arryn into the fold," Tywin ordered, "and the Young Wolf can add his own aunt to the list of people who've taken up arms against him."

"Far be it for me to hinder true love," Tyrion interjected, raising a hand, "but Lord Baelish's absence would present certain problems. The royal wedding may end up being the most expensive event in living memory." He was right, of course. With the coffers already strained by the war, the wedding had a real risk of emptying them completely. "Summer has ended, hard days lie ahead. Not a good time to leave the Crown's finances unattended."

"Fully agreed," Tywin stated. "Which is why I'm naming you new Master of Coin."

Cersei let out a short laugh, but Tyrion did not find it so funny. "Master of Coin?" he questioned; his expression incredulous.

"It would appear to be a position that best suits your talents," his father confirmed.

"I'm quite good at spending money," Tyrion argued, laughing slightly as he spoke, "but a lifetime of outrageous wealth has not taught me much about managing it!"

Cersei smiled cruelly. "I have no doubt you will prove equal to this challenge."

"Hear hear," agreed Pycelle, slapping the table.

Tyrion opened his mouth to argue again, but Tywin shot him a withering glance that seemed to thrust the smaller man back into his seat. This time, Varys was **certain** that the ring was glowing. Tyrion leaned forward and opened his mouth again, but no words came out. His face began to grow red, as if his breath had been cut off, and his eyes nearly bulged in his head. The room was silent, and through it all, the Ring continued to glow. Finally the glow faded, and Tyrion slumped back into his chair, fear in his eyes.

"What else?" Tywin asked, continuing as if nothing had happened. The meeting continued after that, but something had changed in the atmosphere of the place. They had all seen what Tywin had done to Tyrion, had all seen the Ring glow. As the meeting continued, Varys saw both Littlefinger and Cersei staring at the Ring, but not with fear. No, their eyes were hungry. As Pycelle droned, Varys felt a chill go down his spine, and Gandalf's words went through his mind once more. There was a darkness here, and he could only hope it did not consume them all.

. . . . .

At sea, off the coast of Rohan

The waves of the sea lapped against the alien shoreline, rolling hills of green overshadowed by the distant silhouettes of great grey, snow-capped mountains. The place was beautiful, a contrast of colors and shapes, a feeling of age and history pervading the land itself. It was all beautiful, from the crystal blue sea to the emerald grass and the brilliant sun above. And of course, the bright orange flames of a sea-side village burning.

Euron Greyjoy wiped blood off his new fae-silver blade, watching as his crew forced the survivors of their raid onto the deck of his ship. They unfortunately hadn't found any more of the strange pointed-eared androgynous people and their strange weapons, only simple farmers, fishermen, and horses. Lots of horses. Based on the horse imagery splattered across the thatch-roofed homes of the now-burning village, Euron guessed that horses were important to them, like the Dothraki, only less savage and more easily slaughtered.

Euron walked over to the line of villagers and grabbed the long blonde hair of one of the men, twisting it tight and forcing the man to look up at him. To his credit, there was still defiance in his eyes. "Have you seen anything like this before?" Euron questioned, holding his shining blade for his captive to see. "Do you know where I can find more weapons like it?"

"I have never seen any such weapon in my life," the man spat. "Nor would I tell you if I had. I pray Ossë sends your ships crashing against the rocks and throws you and all your men to the depths of the sea."

Euron smiled cruelly at that, leaning down and letting his blade graze the neck of the rebellious horseman. Even that slight touch was enough to draw blood, the alien blade cutting through flesh like a knife through butter. Better even. "My last captives weren't very interested in talking either," he hissed in the captive's ear. "I would hate to see what remains of your family ending up like them." He twisted the captive's head to give him a better view of the mast of his ship, where the corpse of the once-glowing man still hung, his body as of yet still untouched by decay.

For the first time since they began speaking, the captive had true fear in his eyes. "Now," Euron whispered, "you're going to tell me all about this land of yours. Every story, every myth, and especially anything having to do with _them_."

. . . . .

Dragonstone, the Crownlands

"You still refuse to say exactly where you're going?" Davos asked as they walked to the shore, where Baratheon soldiers prepared her boat for departure.

"I don't know yet," Melisandre answered. "The fires will show me."

"The fires," Davos grumbled, shaking his head. "Always with the fires."

"You mock, yet you have found yourself at the center of the Lord of Light's purposes more than once now," Melisandre told him. "Perhaps it is time you revaluated your faith, Ser Davos."

"I believe that I need to protect the Lady Shireen and get justice for Stannis," Davos replied. "If your fire god can help, I'm glad for it, but don't expect me to start praying to him any time soon."

"Perhaps," she stated with a smile, "perhaps not. We will speak again when I return."

Davos watched as she left the shore, his mind a jumble of stormclouds. He still didn't trust the Red Woman or her god, but his gut told him that she had been genuine in wanting to free Stannis from King's Landing. She hadn't simply chosen to let him die. That didn't make it any easier though, and it didn't make him trust her anymore either, especially with Stannis dead. Who knew what Melisandre really wanted?


	13. Chapter 10

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 10

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

Secret base of the Brotherhood, the Riverlands

In the few weeks since he joined the Brotherhood, Athelon had finally begun to feel like himself again, or at least something close to it. He had traveled throughout the countryside, striking at soldiers who beat down defenseless villagers and anyone else they found preying on the weak, stealing supplies from the roving armies, particularly the Lannisters, who had proven to be the worst offenders when it came to abusing innocents. They always returned most of the goods back to their rightful owners, the people the armies had left starving in their wakes. Athelon found that the members of the Brotherhood had a real camaraderie and sense of justice, reminding him of home. They still spoke and smelled nearly as foul as orcs, and their near-fanatical devotion of their "Lord of Light" was strange and a touch concerning, and a small part of his mind told him there was still a secret that his new brothers kept from him, but this was still the closest to Gondor that he had experienced since coming to this land.

Perhaps there is hope here after all. For them and for me.

It turned out that the man who had attempted to track him was named Anguy, and besides a decent tracker he was also a pretty good shot. He even claimed to be the best shot in Westeros. And perhaps he had been, before Athelon arrived. As skilled as Anguy was, there was no man on this continent that could match a ranger of Gondor for skill with the bow. Athelon had quite enjoyed proving that fact to him.

All in all, it felt good. It felt good to be on the side of justice again, to have brothers in arms again. It felt good to stand up for what was right and fight against injustice, like he always used to. But through it all, the shadow of the Black Gate still loomed ominously at the edge of his vision, the memory of the terror he faced and fled from. The memory of disgrace tainting the little peace he had managed to find.

He worked to keep those thoughts at bay, with mixed results. Some days it was as if he were in Ithilien again in the days before he was assigned to the Black Gate, hunting down orc raiding parties or Haradrim incursions at the edge of the wilds. Others, it was all he could do to keep moving.

He was busy sharpening his sword when they brought the big man in, the one they called "the Hound". He wasn't actually that large, by Gondorian standards at least. A little taller than average, certainly, but nothing Athelon hadn't seen before. He was quite heavily built though, and while Athelon was sure he could dodge blows from a foe that size, he doubted he wanted to know what it felt like to be hit by one of those blows. He couldn't help but wonder what sort of incident could have resulted in the mess of scar tissue mangling half of the man's face. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been pleasant.

He didn't recognize the other captives, though he was a little concerned to see a young girl among them. Nor did he recognize most of the names that were thrown around as Dondarrion argued with the Hound. He recognized the Starks by this point as the army with the wolf sigil, but "Joffrey," "Aegon," "Targaryen," none of these made any sense to him. Apparently, there was a lot of bad blood between these different factions a lot older than the current war. Still, as he listened, he had to admit the Hound had a point. There were lots of accusations being thrown around, but none were truly aimed at him.

No man is guilty for the crimes of his brother, no matter how heinous they may be. We bear only the weight of our own crimes.

"You murdered Mycah!" the girl exclaimed, surprising and drawing the eyes of everyone in the room, Athelon included. "The butcher's boy," she continued. "My friend. He was twelve years old. He was unarmed. And you rode him down. You slung him over your horse like he was some deer."

Athelon recognized that face. It was the face of one who had witnessed injustice, and now yearned for vengeance. There was no lie in those words. She spoke the truth. But even knowing this, Athelon was concerned for her. The road she was on was a dark one, and it rarely had a pleasant destination.

Athelon listened as they argued, the girl demanding justice, the Hound declaring himself merely a pawn, laying the blame for his actions at the feet of another. Then Dondarrion spoke then, cutting through the strife. "You stand accused of murder," he declared, "but no one here knows the truth of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light can do that now. I sentence you to trial by combat."

Altheron jumped to his feet, shocked. "Trial by combat? You cannot possibly mean that. You cannot judge a man's guilt or innocence by blade alone." Even with all he had seen of this barbaric land, he still could not believe they held such a brutal custom.

"The Lord of Light will decide his fate," Dondarrion assured him. "It is He who will guide the victor's blade."

"Neither any of the Valar nor the One interfere in the lives of Men to such an extent that they would settle such disputes," Athelon argued. "They will not bless this trial."

"Calm down," Anguy told him, resting a hand on Athelon's shoulder. "We know you're not from here, but this is the way it is done. Have faith. The Lord of Light will not allow darkness to prevail this day."

Athelon shook Anguy's hand off his shoulder and looked around at the others, only to find the same fervent belief in their eyes as he saw in Anguy's and Dondarrion's. They may have counted him as their brother, but his words meant nothing in this moment. Not before their faith in their Lord of Light and his justice. Athelon turned away then, storming off deeper into the caves. He had no desire to watch this.

. . . . .

Athelon meant to stay away. He meant to have nothing to do with this barbaric idea of justice. But he felt something back in the main cavern, something powerful. Something that drew him in and sent chills down his spine all at the same time. Something that he could not deny. He returned to the sounds of battle, to grunts of effort and the flashing of steel.

He almost didn't believe it when he saw it. He had heard the others talking about Dondarrion and Thoros wielding flaming swords into battle, but he hadn't seen it for himself. He also hadn't expected the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the flaming sword swing. Something about it was wrong. He just couldn't tell what.

He watched as the Hound, initially fearful of the flames, gained the advantage over Dondarrion, fighting as his own shield ignited, beating him down with brutal force, until-

Athelon flinched as the Hound's blade broke through Dondarrion's, shattering metal and cleaving through flesh and bone. The Hound dropped on the ground to beat the fire from his shield while Thoros ran over the Dondarrion's dead body, and Athelon bowed his head in respect and sadness. Despite the strange feelings that flaming sword had given Athelon, Dondarrion was a good man. With him dead, this land had lost a valuable resource that was already in short supply.

The little girl snatched a knife from one of the men and charged, only to swiftly be swept off her feet. "No!" she shrieked, squirming to strike at the . "Let go of me! Let me go!"

"Looks like their god likes me more than your butcher's boy," the Hound laughed breathlessly from his position on the ground.

"Burn in hell!" she screamed back, still fighting for a chance to kill him.

"He will." Athelon froze at the voice, his blood going cold. That wasn't possible. That was the voice of a dead man. The Hound and the girl had also frozen, the two almost as shocked as Athelon was horrified. He turned around to see Dondarrion on his knees, the death-wound that had nearly cleft him in twain now nothing more than a ragged scar. "But not today."

As Dondarrion stood, Athelon's gaze turned to Thoros of Myr. The Red Priest. He had believed the priest had rushed to Dondarrion's side as a friend, grief-stricken and unable to believe that his friend and commander was gone. Now he saw the truth. Sorcerer. His mind went back to the Black Gate, to the day he had fled. He watched as the shadow passed over the walls, filling his heart with the same dread he now felt staring at the man he had called brother. This was no blessing of the Valar, no gift of the elves or skill of the dwarves. This was sorcery, dark and unholy. It was wrong. And now he knew the secret they had kept from him. This was not the first time this had happened. It was not the first time their Red Priest had called upon black sorcery, upon the craft of the Enemy.

"Don't worry," Anguy told him quietly, clapping him on the shoulder. "It takes a bit for it to set in the first time you see him come back from the dead. You'll get used to it."

No, Altheron thought to himself. I won't.

. . . . .

Riverrun, the Riverlands

The hall filled with clashing steel and angered shouts as the men charged through, the sounds soon accompanied by the death-cries of the guards stationed to guard the prisoners. Lord Rickard Karstark led the charge, his face contorted in mindless rage as he drove his sword through a guardsman's chest. The maddened mob surged around the corner into the hallway before the prisoner's chamber, only to pause in shock as they found no guards before the doors themselves. Instead an old man sat in a chair, blowing rings of smoke out of his mouth, a large blue hat draping his bearded face in shadows.

"The blood of good men has been spilled this day," the old man stated simply, his voice betraying no emotion. "Do you really wish to add the blood of innocents to your blade?"

The shock of the scene wearing off, the fire rose in Lord Karstark's blood once more, and he raised his sword. "My sons-"

"Would be ashamed of you!" Karstark stumbled back as the old man stood up, seeming to grow before them, his shadow lengthening until it covered them all. "Do you think they would be proud to see you now? Their noble father, coming to murder two small boys in their beds like a coward? Killing loyal soldiers of the king that you and your sons both swore to serve, in a mad rush for empty vengeance?"

The words struck Karstark to the core, every syllable a bard sent straight through his heart. But even as he began to falter, he realized who this old man was. It was the wizard, the old man that had come into their camp and immediately began advising the Young Wolf as if he had known the boy his whole life. This is sorcery, he reasoned. He's worming his way into my mind with his foul words. I won't let him! He struck at the old man, only to see a flash of silver and feel the unexpected jerk as his blade was stopped in mid-air by a strange silvery blade of a workmanship he had never seen before. His shock left him off-balance, and with a swift motion the wizard disarmed him, flinging Karstark's blade into the wall.

Then his men cried from behind him as a mass of guards appeared, charging at them. He glared at the old wizard, who stood confidently with his blade now at Karstark's throat. "Stand down!" he finally commanded, still glaring death at the wizard that had ruined his chance at vengeance. "we've lost."

. . . . .

"I'm not fighting for justice if I don't serve justice to murders in my ranks, no matter how highborn," Robb declared, his face grave. "He has to die."

Edmure Tully watched his face, disconcerted. There was anger there, real anger. Not the kingly anger he had had towards Edmure himself on an earlier occasion, but a deeper, wilder anger. This was the anger of a wolf.

"The Karstarks are Northmen," Catelyn warned, walking up to him. "They won't forgive the killing of their lord."

"Your mother's right," Talisa agreed. "If you do this the Karstarks will abandon you."

"He killed my men," Robb growled, sounding for a moment almost like the direwolf on his tabard. "He would have killed those boys."

"But he didn't!" she reminded him. "And more boys will keep dying until this war is over. You need Karstark men to end it."

"Spare his life," Catelyn pleaded. "Keep him as a hostage!"

"A hostage," Edmure Tully agreed with a nod, glad to have an idea to cling to. "Tell the Karstarks that as long as they remain loyal, he will not be harmed." He just wished he had been the one to think of it.

"This is a difficult decision for you," Gandalf commented from his chair in the corner, where the others had nearly forgotten about him. Edmure at least had assumed the old man was asleep. "It seems that honor demands death, while reason demands life. But do not be fooled. Pride and anger are skilled at disguising themselves as honor and duty. Do not abandon reason so lightly."

Edmure hadn't much liked the old "wizard," but he had to admit that his words here were wise ones. He could only pray to the Seven that their king would listen to them.

Robb did not listen.

. . . . .

Secret base of the Brotherhood, the Riverlands

Athelon had been in a dark mood since he witnessed the death and rebirth of Beric Dondarrion. He kept away from the other members of the Brotherhood, rarely speaking. His mind was too filled with this whirlwind of dark thoughts to engage in any comradery. The only person he really interacted with was the girl, Arya.

"Where are you from?" she asked one night, walking up to his spot away from the rest of those in the cave. He said nothing at first, but she simply sat down next to him and waited. After a few moments, he gave in.

"Far away," he answered. "Far to the east, beyond Essos, beyond the Shadowlands and Asshai, beyond Yi Ti."

"But there isn't anywhere that far east," she argued.

Athelon chuckled at that. "Not long ago, I didn't believe there was anything this far west."

They were both silent for a moment, Arya thinking his words over before asking, "What is it like? Where you're from?"

Athelon allowed himself a small smile at that as he let himself remember. "It's beautiful. The hills are rolling waves of green, and the white-capped mountains pierce the sky itself. The white stone of the great city of Minas Tirith shines in the sunlight, and her people live in peace and plenty, kept safe by the diligence of Gondor's armies. There is still evil, but such things are kept far away from the common folk. They never need fear the darkness. Things are… simpler there. Easy to understand. The line between good and evil, between right and wrong, is much clearer. It is easy to know what the right thing is."

"Why did you leave?" she asked.

A shadow passed across Athelon's face. "I crossed the line."

Athelon said nothing more that night.

. . . . .

When the Red Woman came, Athelon felt it. He didn't know why, but he could sense her power, her darkness. Perhaps his experience at the Black Gate had changed him beyond simply stripping him of his honor. Perhaps it had made him more sensitive to the presence of the dark forces. Perhaps everyone felt it, and he was simply the only one who understood what that creeping dread meant. Or maybe his frightened mind was simply playing tricks on him, feeding his growing paranoia. Whatever the case, he knew their visitor had arrived before anyone came to tell him about it.

"…and I knew the truth," Athelon overheard Thoros saying as he crept within earshot of their conversation. "Our god IS the one true god. And all men must serve him." Thoros spoke those words with faith, but to Athelon they were words of dread. It was no god that had given the drunk priest the power to bring back the dead, and Athelon knew of few beings with such power. None of them were anything he wished to serve.

The Red Woman turned to Dondarrion. "You've been to the other side," she stated.

"The other side?" he asked. "There is no other side. I have been to the darkness, my lady." He paused, taking stock of this stranger. "He sent you to us for a reason."

"You have someone he needs."

. . . . .

"You sold the boy?!" Athelon demanded, storming up to Dondarrion with his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You sold him like you would a piece of meat?!" When he had listened to the former knight's conversation with the Red Woman, he hadn't truly believed that he would go through with it. It wasn't until later, when he heard Arya screaming, that he realized that he had been wrong about what sort of man Beric Dondarrion was.

"The Lord of Light had need of him," Dondarrion explained simply.

"I did not know that gods paid with gold," Athelon spat, barely an inch from Dondarrion's purposefully blank expression. "He wanted to be one of us. He wanted to be our brother."

Despite Athelon's rage, Dondarrion held his ground. "He had a greater destiny."

"And you gave him to a witch," Athelon growled. "I doubt his destiny will amount to much with him in her clutches."

"She is not a witch," Dondarrion argued. "She is a servant of the Lord of Light. As are we all."

Athelon looked away from him in disgust, spitting at the ground. "She is a witch. And I want nothing more to do with your Red God." He spun around, snatching up his few things, which he already had packed and ready. He turned back for a moment, his expression softening slightly. "Let Anguy know that he is the best marksman in the Brotherhood again."

With that Athelon left the Brotherhood behind, resuming his long march to nowhere. As he thought of which direction to head, he remembered a conversation he had overheard in a tavern about a place known as the Wall and a group called the Night's Watch. He hadn't thought much of it, but he supposed that it was better than no direction at all. With that in mind, he turned northward and began walking.


	14. Chapter 11

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 11

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

King's Landing, the Crownlands

The air changed as the doors to the throne room opened, revealing the imposing form of Tywin Lannister. Joffrey had been confident when he had called his grandfather there, but now, sitting on the Iron Throne atop the dais, he suddenly felt very small. Tywin walked with an aura of power and assurance, the aura of a man who knew that he was always in control, no matter what situation he found himself in. If that wasn't enough, Joffrey could almost swear that the ring hanging from his uncle's neck glowed faintly, burning with a sinister radiance, like a fire, trapped but waiting eagerly for release.

He discarded those thoughts almost immediately. He was the king! He wasn't going to fall prey to any superstition, or to his grandfather. He was Joffrey's Hand, after all. Tywin worked for him, as did everyone else. Tywin stopped at the bottom of the dais, lowering his head respectfully towards the king.

"Your Grace."

"Grandfather," Joffrey replied stiffly, still trying to gather himself.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Tywin's voice was level, reasonable, and respectful, and yet somehow Joffrey still felt an edge to it that he didn't like.

"Yes," he answered, "I'd like a report on the meetings of my Small Council."

"You are welcome to attend the meetings of your Small Council, your Grace," Tywin told him plainly. "Any or all of them."

"I-I've been very busy," Joffrey stammered, picking at his armrest so he didn't have to look at his grandfather in the eyes. "Many important matters require a king's attention."

Joffrey could hear the sarcasm in his grandfather's voice when Tywin answered simply, "Of course."

 _I am the king!_ Joffrey reminded himself as he struggled against some strange impulse to cower. _I bow before no one! This is my kingdom, my city, and my throne. He will answer to me!_

"You've been holding the council meetings in the Tower of the Hand, instead of the Small Council chamber," he finally stated.

"I have, yes."

"May I ask why?" Joffrey spread his arms as if inviting an answer, and immediately cursed his choice of words. He shouldn't need to ask permission in order to get answers!

"Well, the Tower of the Hand is where I work," Tywin answered. "To walk from there to here would take time. Time I could otherwise spend productively."

"So if I wanted to attend a council meeting," Joffrey questioned, exacerbated, "I would now have to climb all the stairs in the Tower of the Hand?"

For a moment, Tywin said nothing. Then the room darkened, and Tywin walked up the steps of the dais. Shadows hung thickly over Joffrey as his grandfather loomed over him, the ring hanging from his neck burning in the darkness. Joffrey got the distinct impression that he had reached the end of his grandfather's patience. "We could arrange to have you carried."

Joffrey wanted to speak. He wanted to push the question, or perhaps to change the subject to the rumors about the dragons across the sea. He wanted to regain control over the situation, to ensure that his grandfather knew that **he was king**. But he couldn't. He couldn't say anything. He couldn't even move. All his arguments, all his objections, died before they could reach his lips. The darkness seemed to choke him, breaking his will and his spirit. It was almost like the feeling he had back when that old madman had stormed into his throne room and somehow kept him from speaking, but it was darker, fouler, more oppressive. And he could do nothing about it. He was terrified. More than terrified.

For the first time since taking the throne, Joffrey realized that he was not the true power in the kingdom. He may be king, but it was Tywin that held the true power, a power Joffrey could not understand. And that frightened him more than he would ever admit.

. . . . .

Dragonstone, the Crownlands

When Melisandre returned to Dragonstone with a boy in tow, Davos knew that something was off. The Red Woman did everything for a reason, and Davos suspected he would not like the reason that she had brought this boy to the island. Unfortunately, he was right.

"You want to **what**?!" he demanded when Melisandre finished explaining her plan.

"We have an opportunity here," she explained. "We can get justice for Stannis and rid the throne of the pretenders."

"And sacrifice the life of an innocent boy to do it?" Davos questioned. "This black magic is exactly what led Stannis to his death!"

"If we are to have the power to bring low the servants of darkness, we will need a king's blood."

"That makes it worse!" he shouted. "That's King Robert's son you are going to kill! Stannis's nephew! Do you think Stannis would want us to kill his own blood just so that we could have petty revenge?"

"He was willing to kill his own brother," Melisandre remarked.

For a moment Davos said nothing, remembering the dark fire and bloody end of that night. "Renly wronged him," he finally argued. "Renly declared himself king when the throne belonged to Stannis. He raised an army, stole his bannermen. This boy has done no harm to anyone, much less us. He's an innocent."

"How many boys live in Westeros?" Melisandre asked. "How many girls? How many men? How many women? The darkness will devour them all. The night that never ends. Unless we can find a way to fulfill Stannis's destiny without him, now that the dark powers have taken him from us. We must all do our duty."

"That boy's duty is not to die this day," Davos argued. "Not by our hand." It was then that Davos realized something. "If this boy truly is Robert's son…"

"Yes?" Melisandre asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Robert is dead," Davos explained. "Stannis is dead. Renly is dead. Joffrey and his siblings are the result of incest between Jaime and Cersei Lannister. That leaves Shireen and this boy as the only surviving heirs. And while I don't know all the in-and-outs of this sort of thing, even if he is only Robert's bastard, this boy may be the closest thing the realm has to a true heir to the throne."

"Perhaps," she replied, her face impassive. "Would you name this boy King of the Seven Kingdoms? Would you seek to rally the lords of Westeros around his banner?"

"I don't know," Davos answered honestly. "But I know that I won't let you murder him."

Melisandre turned away, walking over to a nearby brazier. She stared into it for a time, Davos standing awkwardly behind her, waiting for whatever it was she saw in the flames. "This boy will not be king," she finally stated. "And he is not the Warrior of Light. But he will fight in the war to come. He will fight alongside the Warrior of Light in the final battle against the darkness." She back towards Davos, her eyes filled with a fire he had not seen in them since Stannis was murdered. "Now we just need to learn who that is."

. . . . .

King's Landing, the Crownlands

"You cannot deny it any longer," Varys whispered as he and Tyrion entered the dimly lit back room, closing the door behind them. "The dark powers are at work within the Realm."

"I don't deny it," Tyrion replied, taking a seat from the wall. "I believe what I can see, and I saw the battle. I saw Stannis. I saw Gandalf. I saw things that I don't think I could understand if I had a hundred lifetimes and the chains of a dozen Maesters. But the threat is over. Stannis is dead. The wizard left and he took his magic with him. Now we are back to normal issues, like my father's schemes, our king's love of torturing anyone he can get his hands on, and the war that is still going on, even without magical assistance."

Varys looked down at him, disappointed. "We both know that is a lie. True, those are all concerns, but you know as well as I that the darkness has not left us. Perhaps you know even better than I. After all, you've felt its effects directly, not long ago."

"My father was always skilled at controlling whatever situation he enters," Tyrion argued, not wanting to admit the truth. The truth that he knew exactly what Varys was talking about, and that it terrified him.

"I wasn't aware that Tywin's skills included stealing the air from one's lungs so that they could not breath, much less talk," Varys replied sarcastically. "I must admit, that is impressive."

"My father is not some sort of sorcerer," Tyrion muttered with a poor half-chuckle, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Neither was Stannis," Varys stated, his frowning face and folded arms showing that he would not be accepting jokes on this subject. "But he wore a ring that gave him power over the minds of men, as well as many other strange powers. A ring that your father now wears around his neck."

"Alright, so my father has an evil soul-sucking ring on a chain around his neck," Tyrion admitted, standing up and beginning to pace around the room. "What are we supposed to do about it? I highly doubt my father would ever give it to us willingly, and the wizard isn't here to use his magic and take it by force."

"You are, unfortunately, correct," Varys agreed. "Though I wouldn't touch that ring even if Tywin offered it to me of his own free will. I want no part in its darkness. Our wizened friend likely thought something similar when he chose not to claim the ring himself before departing the city."

"That still leaves us with no answer as to how to rectify the situation!" Tyrion exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "My father was already the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms **before** he got his hands on a magic ring."

"We must bide our time," Varys answered after a moment. "I have often found that patience reveals paths previously unseen. Your father has always been skeptical of the greater powers of this world, which may be to our advantage. I do not believe he truly understands the import of the Ring he now bears. Perhaps the time will come where we will have the opportunity to separate him from it."

"Perhaps?" Tyrion questioned. "Is that really the best we have?"

Varys sighed. "It would seem so."

. . . . .

At sea, off the coast of Gondor

"Get the wind in those sails!" Euron Greyjoy shouted at his crew as they sped across the waves. "Let's show these bastards what it means to be Ironborn!"

As always, his crew obeyed. But there were a few among them who had begun to question.

Ever since the disastrous battle against the bright-skinned knife-eared men, their captain had become obsessed with finding more of them and their strange silvery weapons. His search had led them up and down the coastline of this strange new continent, from the land of the horsemen to this harsher land of coastal fortresses that reminded them in some ways of Westeros. The men here knew the seas well, and their ships were of the highest quality. That, combined with the various castles and fortresses, made raiding quite difficult. They had managed to stay ahead of the locals thus far, but they had several close calls already.

And through all of that, they still had yet to encounter a single one of the "elves," as the people of this land called them. Most of those they tortured only knew of them faintly, from tales and legends they were told as children. The few who seemed to truly know anything refused to speak, no matter what tortures they devised. They were a strong-willed people, these "Men of Gondor." They had managed to both impress and anger the Ironborn in equal measure (not an easy feat).

With all this, some had begun to question the path their esteemed captain was leading them down. This new land had been exciting at first, but they found the horsepeople to have little in the way of riches, at least those that lived near the coasts, while these Gondorians protected their wealth within fortresses stronger than most in Westeros. Their merchant vessels were also better protected than any they had seen before. They had grown thin and angry on this voyage, instead of fat and rich as they had believed. Many had begun to turn their gazes back west, to much easier pickings.

"Captain!" an Ironborn sailor shouted, racing up the stairs from belowdecks. "We've gotten one of them to talk!"

"We're a little busy at the moment!" Greyjoy shouted back from the helm, steering the ship away from the pursuing Gondorian vessels.

"Captain," the sailor pressed on, "he told us about a land to the south, a land of their enemies. He called it 'Harad.' There is a port city there known as Umbar. These men here refuse to speak with us, but these 'Haradrim' might. Especially if we bring them a host of Gondorian prisoners."

A port where they could rest? Maybe eat something other than stolen rations and horsemeat? That was starting to sound pretty nice.

Euron didn't care what his sailors thought sounded nice. He was their captain, and they would follow **his** orders. But he knew how hard he had pushed them, and he knew that even he couldn't sail a ship with only corpses for a crew. They **would** reave and rape across this new land as only true Ironborn could. But they would first learn what they could about this land from more willing mouths.

"We're going south!" he finally shouted.

The cry went up, and the crew went to work with renewed determination. _Wherever this Umbar is_ , Euron thought to himself, _it better be worth the trip._ He hadn't forgotten what truly brought him to this land. He wore the reminder on his belt and wielded it in battle at every opportunity. If he could get more of that strange metal, enough for his whole crew, he would be the most feared raider on the seas. But for that, he needed to kill some elves.

. . . . .

The Twins, the Riverlands

Gandalf looked up at the great towered bridge as they passed through its gates, an ill mood upon him. They had come to this place to reforge allegiances and to take part in a wedding. It should have been a time of celebration. But the shadow of Robb's decisions hung over the now-smaller army, and Gandalf's foresight warned him that far worse lay in store for their fates than simply the loss of the Karstarks. Something foul was coming. He simply did not know what it was, or from whence it would come. But it would come. And soon.


	15. Chapter 12: The Red Wedding, Part 1

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 12

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

The Twins, the Riverlands

The Red Wedding

So far, it appeared that Gandalf's foresight had failed him. Lord Walder Frey accepted Robb's apology for failing to marry one of his daughters with surprising magnanimity, though not without an uncomfortable display of vulgarity. Robb's replacement in the marriage bargain, Lord Edmure Tully, had complained about the wedding ceaselessly on the journey to the Twins, but seemed to change his tune rather quickly once he actually met his bride-to-be. The wedding itself had occurred without incident, and now all parties involved celebrated together in the great hall. Everything went exactly as they had hoped.

But the sense for dread failed to leave him. All his gifts denied the evidence of his eyes, warning him that doom was upon them. But he was not so skilled as others among the Wise in the gift of foresight, and exactly what manner of doom awaited them was still veiled from his vision.

So, he watched. Curled in a chair in the far corner of the room, he watched the festivities with a watchful eye, smoke drifting lazily around his pipe towards the ceiling. He watched with a small harrumph of displeasure as Lord Frey called for the bedding ceremony and Robb agreed, men and women carrying the bride and groom off to their room. It was a barbaric custom, one with little respect for either party involved, but it was not his purpose to fix their customs, however barbaric they might be.

Gandalf glanced towards Robb and Talisa and allowed himself a small smile as they kissed. Marrying Talisa had been one of the worst decisions Robb had made, when it came to matters of the Realm. But Gandalf did not begrudge them the happiness they had managed to find even in such dark times. He also could not deny that the new queen balanced Robb well, her calm mind providing a counterweight against his fierce and often driving emotions.

Then a Frey man, a servant or a soldier or one of Walder Frey's many sons perhaps, walking past Gandalf. Gandalf's eyes narrowed as the man closed the hall's great double doors, which latched in place. Then the song began. The cloud of foreboding that had hung over him throughout the night suddenly grew heavily and dark. It took a moment of searching through the depths of his memory, but he soon realized why this song filled him with such dread. It was the Rains of Castamere.

Gandalf stood up carefully to not arouse suspicion, slowly making his way towards the front of the hall, his eyes flicking between the various Frey men in the room. Walder Frey raised his hand then, cutting off the music. "Your Grace," he announced. "I feel I've been remiss in my duties." Gandalf realized then that the moment had come. The darkness he had foreseen was about to be unleashed. They had been betrayed.

"Treachery!" Gandalf shouted, standing to his full height and holding his staff aloft. "Betrayal!"

Immediately one of the Frey men pulled a dagger from his belt, grabbing Talisa from behind and rapidly stabbing her in the belly. Gandalf reached out his hand to stop it, but the deed was already done. He had not been fast enough to stop tragedy from befalling them all. Not truly.

"Robb!" Caitlin shrieked in horror, Roose Bolton immediately fleeing from her side out of the room. The fact that he ran away instead of racing to his king's side told Gandalf all he needed to know about him. It appeared the Frey's were not the only betrayers here.

Not hesitating a moment longer, Gandalf boomed a word of power. "Melehtë!" he cried, a blast of pure force from the tip of his staff sending tables flying away from him and intercepting the crossbow bolts intended for Robb's chest, sending them flying away as well. "Fight!" Gandalf shouted, turning towards the Stark men in the room, slashing Glamdring through the nearest Frey traitor. "Fight!"

With another word of power and a wave of his staff the balcony the crossbowmen were stationed was engulfed in flames, the fiery explosion shocking the traitors long enough for the loyal Stark men to recover. Then the true battle began.

. . . . .

Arya had been the captive of the Hound for too long now, ever since he had captured her during her escape from the Brotherhood Without Banners. He had taken her all this way so that he could ransom her back to her mother and brother, but now that she was so close, she couldn't let anything keep her from seeing them for a moment longer. It hadn't been hard to escape while he was distracted by the guard at the gate.

Arya snuck past the guards through the gates, creeping her way towards the great hall, where she knew that her mother and brother would be. She ducked behind a barrel as a soldier walked past, peeking out to see a group of Stark men eating and drinking merrily at a long table outside. Some other men walked over to them, and Arya leaned in to try to hear what they were saying-

 **BOOM!**

Even as far as she was from the blast, Arya was seeing stars, all sounds replaced by a constant high-pitched whine. It took her a second to realize that the light and sound had come from the great hall, the great hall which now had smoke billowing from its high windows. The Stark soldiers realized the same thing not long after, quickly pulling out their swords. The other men recovered immediately afterwards, one of them stabbing the Stark man next to him in the throat. But the explosion took away any surprise they had beyond that, and soon the yard was filled with open battle as Starks fought against their hosts in what soon became a brutal bloodbath on all sides.

Arya wanted to help, to join in the fight, but she had no weapon, and in the darkness she could barely see who belonged to which side. Bolts flew through the air as soldiers armed with crossbows poured from the keep, firing upon the Stark men. One of the surviving Stark soldiers raced for the pen where Robb's direwolf Grey Wind was howling and clawing for release, throwing open the latch before a crossbow found his back. The massive direwolf leapt from his pen, landing on one of the traitors and tearing his throat out with a vicious snarl. He leapt at another soldier, but as Grey Wind tore into him, several crossbow bolts struck the great wolf, throwing him to the earth with a yelp of pain. They didn't stop with him down though, as the remaining crossbowmen fired their bolts into the wolf, who let out one last pitiful whine before his eyes closed forever.

For a moment Arya only stared, Grey Wind's corpse the only thing she could see. _How many do we have to lose?_ Then she forced her gaze and thoughts away from the dead, towards the smoke still billowing from the windows of the great hall. _Mom and Robb are in there,_ she realized. _They could need help._ So, glancing around to make sure none of the soldiers saw her, she made a dash for the gates. But before she could reach them she was stopped abruptly by a powerful hand on her shoulder.

Turning around, she saw the imposing figure of the Hound standing over her, his gauntleted hand gripping her shoulder tightly. "It's too late," he told her, and for a moment she saw what almost looked like pity on his face. But she didn't care. She needed to find her family, needed to help them, needed to-" but as she tried to escape, she felt something heavy hit her head and everything went black.

. . . . .

King's Landing, the Crownlands

When Tyrion entered the chamber, he was not reassured by the ear-to-ear grin on Joffrey's face as he practically danced behind Tywin's chair at the head of the table. "Killed a few puppies today?" he asked as he sat down in his seat, opposite of his father's, as always.

"Tell him," Joffrey commanded eagerly, grabbing Tywin's shoulder and eliciting a slight glare from him. Joffrey let go immediately, cringing away from that glare, but only for a moment. It appeared not even his newfound fear of his grandfather could keep Jofrrey's bloodlust at bay. "Please tell him what happened."

Tywin sighed. "Our spies among the Stark forces report that Robb Stark and his remaining generals have all been killed, thanks to a betrayal from his allies, Roose Bolton and Walder Frey."

"Robb Stark is dead!" Joffrey exclaimed with glee. "They're all dead!"

"I'm afraid these spies may have left the battle a little too quickly," Varys interjected, Joffrey spinning towards him in shock.

"What do you mean?" Joffrey gasped. "They're dead!" He snatched up a piece of parchment, holding it up in front of Varys's face. "It says so right here!"

"I was going to inform your Grace before Lord Tyrion arrived," Varys explained, bowing his head respectfully. "But I had received some whispers from my little birds that say otherwise."

"Why should I care about your 'little birds?'"

"What whispers?" Tywin questioned, cutting Joffrey off. "What have you heard?"

"Reports have varied, my lord Hand," the Master of Whispers answered. "A few agree with your own spies, but others claim that it was Frey and his men who were all slaughtered. Some claim all died in the battle, and that only ghosts man the walls of the Twins." He paused, looking around the table to make sure everyone was paying attention. "Some even claim to have seen the Father in human form, smiting the Freys for their wickedness."

"I am not interested in rumors and old wives tales," Tywin spat. "I want the facts!"

"Of course," Varys agreed. "Than perhaps it would interest you to know that Gandalf the Grey was among Robb Stark's company." That caught everyone's attention. "It would appear that he has become one of the Young Wolf's most trusted advisors."

"So the old fool has added himself to the list of traitors," Tywin declared derisively. "Let us hope the initial reports are correct and the Freys killed him along with the 'Young Wolf.'"

But Tyrion knew better than that. He had seen Gandalf's power first-hand. He had watched the old man surrounded in blinding light as he defeated Stannis Baratheon in single combat. In that moment, even Tyrion had difficulty thinking of him as anything other than a god. He had never particularly cared about the Freys, but if Gandalf had really joined Robb Stark's army, and the Freys had really betrayed Robb, then Tyrion was very glad that he wasn't one of them.


	16. Chapter 13: The Red Wedding, Part 2

Lord of Thrones: A Game of Rings

Chapter 13

Third Age 2953/300 After Conquest

The Twins, the Riverlands

The Red Wedding

Smoke filled the great hall, the light of the flames doing little to cut through the thick haze covering everything. The air was filled with the sound of clashing steel, grunts of pain, and the cries of the dying. More Freys had quickly swarmed into the hall after Gandalf ignited the balcony and incinerated the crossbowmen, but the lords of the North were sturdy folk, and it hadn't taken them long to join in the fight. And of course, there was Gandalf.

Robb still did not know how to wrap his mind around what his eyes and ears told him. The weathered old man, always leaning on his staff for support, was suddenly a whirlwind of motion, wielding both staff and blade as deadly weapons, breaking bones with his staff and slicing through mail as if it were butter with his strange silvery sword. And then there was the… well, the only thing Robb could describe it as was magic. The blast that had kept the crossbow bolts from striking him, the inferno that had consumed the crossbowmen, they were both impossible. Like something out of a story.

 _But if he is so powerful, why couldn't he save Talisa? Why couldn't he save my wife?_

Robb pushed those thoughts from his mind before his grief could overwhelm him. They needed to survive this night before they could mourn. He ran his sword through another Frey soldier that came at him through the smoke, coughing heavily as he pulled the man's corpse off his blade. _I need to find my mother,_ he told himself. _I need to make sure she is safe._ He pushed his way through the haze, covering his mouth with one arm and fighting with the other as he searched for her. He found her too late.

He found her lying atop one of the tables, her throat slit open. Blood dripped off the edges of the table, and her eyes were empty of any semblance of life. For a moment, Robb only stood there, staring at his mother's corpse. Then he felt something build up inside him, something stronger than anything he had felt before. Rage. Stronger than the anger he had felt at his father's murder at the hands of the Lannisters. Stronger than the anger he had felt at Rickard Karstark for murdering his men and attempting to murder those boys. No, this was white-hot rage, burning away everything else inside him. And all of it was directed at one man, the man whose treachery had taken from him both the woman he loved and the woman who gave him life.

 _Walder Frey_

Robb walked with single-minded fury, cutting down anyone who stood in his path. He found Walder Frey hiding beneath his table, clutching a dagger to his chest like a talisman. The old man looked up at Robb with terror in his eyes, his mouth moving, but no sounds coming out. Robb imagined he was probably trying to beg for mercy, perhaps offering him a deal in exchange for his life. It didn't matter. Even if he could manage to speak, his pleas would have fallen on deaf ears.

Robb didn't give him the peace of a clean death. No, he didn't deserve that. He didn't chop his head off and end it there. No, he stabbed the betrayer in the chest again and again, ignoring the former lord's whimpers as Robb did to him what he ordered done to Talisa. Some time after the whimpering stopped, Robb pulled the brutalized corpse up and tossed it down into the hall, allowing all the traitors to see their inevitable fate. Then he leapt down and rejoined the bloodbath.

. . . . .

Two figures stood atop the parapet of the Twins as the first rays of morning light crept over the horizon, illuminating the remains of the battlefield below. The earth was littered with corpses, while many more floated down the waters of the Trident. The only sounds to be heard were the cries of the wounded and the carrion birds that had followed the scent of death, and those of the first category were steadily being silenced as the soldiers moving silently through the field either took the wounded from the field or ended their lives there, determined only by whose colors they wore.

The dead that littered the field, that flowed down the waters of the Trident, and that filled the halls of the great keep could not be counted. Yet still, it was not enough.

"Is that all of them?" Robb asked the cloaked figure standing vigil next to him. "Did we get them all?"

"House Frey is no more," Gandalf answered solemnly. "No man of that house remains on this earth, neither sons nor vassals nor ." He knew that Robb could see the deep sadness etched into the wrinkles of his face, but that the young king couldn't understand the emotion. Not in this moment, when the only thing he felt was the fire of wrath burning within him. He burned for revenge, to hurt those that hurt him. But Gandalf was only tired. Tired of seeing so much death, always for so little cause.

"And the Boltons?" Robb questioned; his voice hard.

Gandalf sighed deeply. "Many fell in the battle, but many more fled. Roose Bolton himself is unaccounted for."

"The traitor would rather flee than accept justice for his crimes," Robb spat, gripping the stone before him tightly. After a moment where it almost appeared as if he would break the stone beneath his fingers, Robb loosened his grip, turning towards Gandalf. "Thank you," he told Gandalf. "If not for you and…" he trailed off for a moment, trying to find an appropriate description, "what you can do, we would have all been lost. You saved me this night. You saved the North."

Gandalf didn't say anything for a moment, only regarding Robb quietly before turning his gaze out to the corpse-strewn fields below. "I only wish I had the foresight to have saved more."

. . . . .

They gathered in one of the only rooms in the fortress that had managed to remain untouched by the fighting, all the remaining leaders of the Northern army. Robb was there, with Gandalf at his side, as was Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, Lord Edmure Tully, who they had managed to fish out of the Frey's dungeons after the fighting was over, and a collection of Northern lords. Everyone but Robb kept a distance between themselves and the grey-garbed wizard, none of them quite sure how to treat him after seeing or hearing of his display of power during the Red Wedding.

"The Frey forces are all dead," the Blackfish stated. "Either killed in the battle or executed afterwards. We won, but only technically. It cost us nearly half our own men."

"Walder Frey wouldn't have done this unless he thought he had something to gain," Robb muttered, leaning over the map of Westeros situated between them. "He must have believed he would gain something by betraying us like this beyond just our deaths."

"Walder Frey was a wicked, spiteful man," one of the Northern lords spat. "Murder was all the motive he needed."

"No," Robb argued, shaking his head. "He was spiteful, but he was calculating. He never acted unless he believed victory was certain and the end would benefit him." The room was silent for a moment before Robb realized the truth. "Tywin Lannister."

"What?" Edmure questioned, caught off guard.

"Tywin must have been in contact with Walder Frey," Robb explained. "He probably promised him lordship of the Riverlands for betraying us. He likely promised Bolton the North as well. We can't let this go unpunished."

"We should strike at the Lannisters now," Edmure suggested, "while the Lannisters think us dead. Attack while they are unaware and vulnerable."

"We are in no position to attack the Lannisters," the Blackfish laughed at his nephew. "We could barely hold our own lands with the men we still have, much less assault King's Landing or Casterly Rock."

"So, what are we supposed to do then?" one of the Northern lords shot back. "Run back home with our tails between our legs like cowards?"

"It wouldn't be cowardice," another Northern lord argued. "We have our own lands to worry about. The Ironborn have been reaving and raping across our lands while we have been busy down here in the South. The South is not our concern. Our home is the North."

"So you would leave us then?" Edmure accused. "Leave us here in the Riverlands alone to fight the Lannisters?"

That accusation sparked a flame, and soon the room was consumed by shouting, raised fists, and insults against the honor of various individuals within the room. Throughout it all, Robb remained silent, staring at the map of Westeros on the table, at the little markers that represented their troops, as well as those of their enemies. Finally he slammed his fist on the table, silencing the fight with a glare. Then he turned, looking at the weathered old man beside him.

"Gandalf," Robb asked, "what do you think? What do you believe our next step should be?"

All eyes turned to the old grey-robed man, though the looks in those eyes varied. Edmure and the Blackfish, who had not been present for Gandalf's display of power, both seemed confused to see their king giving so much importance to the old man's counsel, though Edmure was a bit more surprised than his uncle. Brynden Tully had heard of Gandalf and his wisdom from the last time the wizard had taken part in the workings of Westeros, while Edmure only knew of his recent appearance. Both had a bit of difficulty believing the some of the details of what happened in the great hall while they were gone. The Northern lords, however, had nearly all seen as Gandalf had called flame and force to do his bidding, and stared at him with a mixture of respect and fear.

Gandalf took his time to answer, stroking his beard in thought. "You cannot travel south, for reasons already stated. You cannot abandon your allies, not when they gave so much for your cause. And you cannot leave your home to ruin, not with the Ironborn and the Boltons both in the North. It would seem that the road north is the only path to take."

"But what about-" Edmure's complaint was cut off with a glare from Robb, but he forged ahead again anyways. "You said yourself that he cannot abandon his allies. If he and all the Northern lords go back North, we will be left defenseless, alone against the Lannisters."

"We can hold the line against those fools," his uncle laughed. "They wouldn't know a siege from a skirmish. We can hold Riverrun far longer than they can siege it."

"You need not hold forever," Gandalf told them. "Simply long enough for the North to be reclaimed."

"We don't know how long that could take!" Edmure objected weakly, seeing that the room was already siding with Gandalf.

"Are we really going to run back and admit defeat?" the Northern lord from before questioned once again. "I refuse to run while there are battles still to be fought!"

"There are plenty of battles to fight," Robb told him. "And we aren't abandoning our allies," he assured Edmure. "But if we are to fight, we must do it from a position of strength. We need more men if we are to win this war. And for that, we need to secure the North."

"There is another matter," Gandalf added, drawing everyone's attention once more. "The world does not yet know who won this battle. It would be wise if we kept it that way for as long as possible. With as many enemies as you have, confusion is your best ally. Strike your banners. Send no ravens. The longer you can keep the world from knowing what transpired today, the longer you have to do what must be done to win this war."

. . . . .

Dragonstone, the Crownlands

"What is this?" Melisandre questioned as she entered the war room. "It must be important. You've never tried to summon me before,"

"It is important," Davos answered, pulling out a raven scroll. "It's from Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch. Their commander is dead. Took a ranging party north and never made it back. One lad did though. What he saw beyond the Wall…" he handed her the scroll, his face dour. "It's coming. For all of us."

Melisandre read the scroll, her eyes growing wide. She turned away from Davos, walking over to the nearby brazier and tossing the scroll into the flames. Davos waited, staring at her as she stared into the flames, wondering what it was she saw.

"This is what we have been waiting for," she told him, still staring into the fire. "This War of Five Kings means nothing. The true war lies to the north. Death marches on the Wall. Our aid will be needed."

"If we are really doing this, I'm going to need to rebuild our army." _Our army._ It didn't sound right. It was supposed to be Stannis's army, not his. But Stannis was gone. He was what was left. "I'm going to need to convince lords this is worth the fight. Bring sellswords and pirates to our side."

"And we will need the boy."

. . . . .

It had been over a week since he was first brought to Dragonstone, but still Gendry wasn't sure what to think of the place. It was frightening, a looming fortress of imposing black stone, but here they treated him like a lord, not a lowborn boy from Flea Bottom. The Red Woman had claimed that he was the son of Robert Baratheon, the son of a king. But who could really believe something like that, after spending all their life in the slums? But again, here he was, eating lords' food, drinking lords' wine, and living in a lord's castle. None of this made any sense, but here he was.

Gendry wandered around the fortress, finding himself lost for the third time that day alone. Suddenly he found himself in a large room, at the center of which was a massive table designed to look like a map of Westeros. In the room he saw the Red Woman and Ser Davos, the only one in the entire castle who had treated Gendry like he was an actual person. The Red Woman stared into the flames of a brazier while Davos stared at her.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"We are preparing for war," the Red Woman answered, turning to him with a look in her eyes that he wasn't sure he wanted to understand. "Death marches on the Wall, and we must be there to meet it."

Gendry didn't know what she meant, but he didn't like it. "What?"

Ser Davos walked up to Gendry then, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We've got a long road ahead of us, and a lot to do before we get there," Davos told him. "Come. I'll explain more as we go."

. . . . .

The Twins, the Riverlands

"I thought I commanded that we send no ravens," Robb stated as he entered the tent, finding the Blackfish and, to his surprise, Gandalf sitting there together. "So why do my men tell me that they saw one flying over us?"

"We didn't send the raven," the Blackfish answered, rising from his seat, holding a scroll in his hand. "It came to us."

"From who?"

The Blackfish handed Robb the scroll, his face serious. "The Night's Watch."

Reading the letter, Robb couldn't believe his eyes. It was impossible, a tale from the old stories. But it was right there in front of him.

 _To all the lords and Noble Men of Westeros_

 _The Night's Watch implores you to heed our warnings. Winter is coming, but not as we have seen for hundreds of years past. Only one man was returned from North of the Wall, the only man left from my company of brothers with news of sights I never thought to report. The White Walkers have risen again and they ride through the northern lands beyond the wall, taking our fallen and making them their own kind. An army of the dead marches forth hundred, perhaps thousands, who can only be killed by fire. Prepare your defenses my Lords. They are coming._

 _Aemon, Maester of the Night's Watch, Castle Black_

"This cannot possibly be true," Robb stammered. "It's impossible!"

"I wish that were so," Gandalf replied. "But Maester Aemon is not one to jest or lie about such things. Nor is he one to believe any tale told to him by a frightened boy. If he says the dead are marching on the Wall, then they are coming. We must be ready. Our march north is more important now than ever." Looking at the old man, Robb realized something that chilled him to the bone. Throughout the massacre of the days before, Gandalf had acted with purpose, completely resolute. He had shown no signs of fear through any of it. But now, reading this letter, he was scared. And that scared Robb even more than the letter itself did.

"Ser Brynden," Robb commanded, the Blackfish snapping to attention. "I am leaving you in charge of our forces in the Riverlands. You and Edmure must hold Riverrun until we return."

"It will be done," the Blackfish assured him. "We'll show those fools a real siege."

"The rest of our forces will begin the march north before nightfall," Robb told him, leaving quickly to send out the order. Despite his haste, he wasn't surprised when he found Gandalf suddenly keeping stride with him. He may have leaned on a staff, but he was in no way impaired. "White Walkers, Gandalf?" Robb finally asked. "Are all the stories really true?"

"There were many dark and terrible things in the Elder Days of the world," Gandalf answered. "Foul servants of Morgoth, creatures twisted by his dark power into perverted parodies of their once noble natures, best left forgotten in the shadows of the past. But if what Maester Aemon says is true, one of the foulest of them has returned to this world." He turned to Robb; his eyes filled with memory of ages far beyond any time Robb could imagine. "And we very well might wish the reality were as simple as the stories."


End file.
